


When Both Our Cars Collide

by FrankiesLilKilljoy



Category: Frank Iero and the Patience, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Complete, F/M, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, My Chemical Romance References, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 48
Words: 74,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22930924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrankiesLilKilljoy/pseuds/FrankiesLilKilljoy
Summary: "That bad, huh?""Worse."
Relationships: Frank Iero/Original Female Character(s), Gerard Way/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 62





	1. ~1~

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something I'm working on. Hope you'll enjoy. Comments are always appreciated.

There are lots of ways to die. You could trip down the stairs. You could choke on a piece of food. You could be in the wrong place at the wrong time. You could get cancer. You could be certain you looked both ways before you stepped out into the road and a car can come and hit you anyway. Death is lurking around every corner, hidden in the shadows just waiting for you to do something stupid, something accidental, something you couldn't even prevent. It wants you to slip up. It's happy when that air goes down just a little bit wrong and you burst into a fit of coughing.

There are also a lot of ways to die, where your body is still there, but your soul kind of floats away. You could lose someone important to you. You could be passed up for that big promotion you were so certain you'd get. A friend can decide to walk out of your life. You could trip and fall in front of your crush. You could fail a test you spent days studying and losing sleep for. Soul crushing death is sneakier than physical death. It doesn't hide in the shadows. It stands, blatantly in front of you disguised as news, as a piece of paper, as police lights bouncing off the brick façade of your apartment building.

What do those two types of death have in common? They come out of nowhere. They hit you like a brick wall. They smack you in the face and turn your life upside down and they just don't care. They laugh at your pain. They stand there and torment you as you try and pick up the pieces of your shattered existence and attempt to get back to some semblance of a life. They enjoy the chaos. Once they've sunk their claws in they hang on for as long as they can. Until you find a light. A light to hold onto. Some tiny particle of hope that helps you find the strength to get up in the morning and face the destruction head-on. Then death cowers in fear.

"You know those things will kill you, right?"

The snap of a lighter, the familiar sharp inhale, the relaxed sigh that follows. He lounges against the same brick wall, his eyes fixed on the hall-moon that hangs lazily above the buildings, reflecting the light of the city back down onto us. "Something's got to."

"That bad, huh?"

Taking one last inhale, I toss the butt of my cigarette to the asphalt, watching the smoke curl up, mixing with the snowflakes that continue their nightly assault on a ground refusing to be coated, "Worse."

"Apartment 211."

I stare back at the hand he offers me. Somehow it's easier to deal with the glass stained eyes and the sad smiles and the sympathetic hugs. This gesture, a handshake, feels too normal. I don't know how to be normal anymore. How are you supposed to just be normal when there's a giant hole in your chest, in your mind, in your life? Tears are normal. The quiet whispers are normal. The offers of hugs and meals are normal. This, this just feels like it'll tip my already sideways world completely upside down.

"212."

His smirk falls, the cigarette almost tipping from his lips. The light that catches his eyes seems to flee, knowing it's not welcome anymore. For a few seconds, he just stares, looking very much like someone punched him in the gut, leaving him short of breath and completely confused. "Oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

"I –" He frowns. A real frown this time. The lines around his mouth creating deep craters in his otherwise youthful features. "If there's anything you need."

"Not lasagna."

He salutes as I slink back inside the building, "Not lasagna."

I both love and hate this apartment. I love it because it still smells like him. All his things are still here, left exactly as he had them. I love that I can fall into bed and almost still feel him there next to me. I can shower and use his body wash and pretend he's there behind me. I can smoke in the kitchen and almost see him on the couch, frowning and grumbling about how he hates that I smoke while I cook. I can open the closet and see his clothes and for a few seconds, I can forget. I hate it because he's not there. He won't just pop out of the spare bedroom covered in paint. I can't hear his singing as he brews our morning coffee. When I wake up his side of the bed is cold. I hate and love that his memory lingers around me, a black smudge on the wall, a cigarette burn on the couch, a t-shirt at the bottom of the hamper. This apartment makes me teeter the line between falling into the past and making my home there and accepting my reality. He's gone.

That morning sits at the forefront of my memories. I can hear him bumping into the dining table that's been sitting in the same spot for months. I can feel the fabric of his raincoat in my grasp. I can see his smile. I can feel his lips against mine and the way his fingers curl into my hair. I can remember telling him to drive safe. I can remember him promising we'd make pizza and watch that new movie we've both wanted to see. I can remember the red and blue bouncing against the bedroom window. I remember praying they weren't there for me. The knock on the door echoed through the apartment. I remember hoping they had the wrong address. He just got stuck in traffic. He got caught up in the project he was working on like always and time just slipped away. His boss needed to talk to him. I remember the way my heart stopped and never really started again. Most of all I remember the emptiness, the quiet, the denial.

What I don't remember is the funeral. I'm not sure if I went through it in a daze or if it became hazy after the fact. I do know they got the flowers wrong. He doesn't like roses. They're cliché. He liked orchids. I don't remember if I pointed that out or not. I do know that a few days later a vase of orchids appeared on my coffee table. I'm not sure if those got delivered or if I bought them. I don't remember all that much, honestly. The last six months have been like walking through water or like watching a movie. I see myself doing things, but I'm not really there. Food appears in the cabinets, folded clothes appear in the drawers, empty liquor bottles end up in the recycling, new packs of cigarettes spring into existence on the bedside table, but I don't remember the actions that put them there.

There's a bottle of Jack Daniels and Diet Coke outside my door the next morning. The only indication of who left them there is a ripped sticky note, the numbers 211 scribbled across it in smeared ink. I guess it's better than lasagna.

I lock myself in the spare bedroom. Sinking to the floor, I stare at the forever-unfinished canvas set on the easel. I think it was supposed to be one of his superheroes. The blues and yellows are muddied down, meant to look old and worn out. The little wisps of red hair fade away into a bright blue sky. The rest is just a sketch, stray pencil marks against an otherwise barren background. Photos of us cycle through on the computer pushed between the windows. Sometimes I stare at them for hours, the light shining into the room fading to darkness. Other times I can't bring myself to look at the screen.

I can feel him in this room. I can feel him everywhere, but here most of all. This was his space. I let him sell the guest bed and move in more art supplies than I had ever seen in my life. One day I'd wandered in while he was working and he took the time to explain what everything was, what it could do, how he could turn it into a work of art. The little painting we did together hangs above the computer. It was meant to be doves, but it looks more like black blobs on a broken stick. He'd loved it. Of course, he'd loved it. The man who could create whole universes in his head chose to love my pathetic attempt at something outside my creative comfort zone. That was just who he was.

"I miss you," I whisper into the silence, expecting no answer, but desperately hoping for one.

I want to be one of those people who believe in ghosts. I wish I could just go to a psychic and drink in every word they say. That's not who I am though. My brain is too logical, too rooted in science and reason. Just once I wish I could turn that part off. I wish I could sink into the hope that maybe he'd come to me in my dreams as an illuminated apparition and tell me everything would be okay, that he's still here. It won't happen though. That kind of thing only happens in ghost stories and fairytales. My life is neither of those. It's more like a rom-com with a horror twist. He probably would've thought that was the best type of movie.

211 is there again, hoisted up onto the half-wall that blocks the apartment buildings from the parking lot. It's the same place he used to sit. I'd tuck myself between his legs, my back pressed into his chest. He'd rest his chin on top of my head and point out the various constellations we could see through the fog and glare of the city lights. He always used to end on the star he bought me for our fifth anniversary. He'd say our love transcended time and space and that he named that star after me so that anytime we had to be apart he could look up and I'd still be with him. I wish I bought him a star.

"Can you move?" I realize how rude I sound as he blinks back at me, his lips slack, eyebrows tugged together. His fingers find his cigarette, pulling it away from him. "He used to sit there. Uh, sorry."

211 jumps down off the wall, pressing his elbows into it as he comes to stand next to me, "What was his name?"

"Gerard."

"Brave spear," 211 coughs, hiding half his face behind a heavily tattooed hand, "That's what his name means." We stare at each other for a few minutes before he mumbles out something along the lines of, sorry that was weird, and takes another drag of his cigarette.

I mull this over in my head, the meaning not quite matching up with the man I knew. Brave, yes. Spear, not so much. He did have the humor for it though, always coming up with a witty comment to my gentle teasing, "He was an artist. Paintbrush over spear. He always killed the spiders though and got the jar of pickles open and grabbed the towels off the top shelf."

"Brave man. I fucking hate spiders."

"Yeah, me too. He used to leave the window open when he painted during the summer. They'd crawl in through the rip in the screen. I used to call him from work and he'd make the drive back just to kill them."

211 grins, getting this far away look in his eyes like he's remembering an old life, happier memories, "He sounds like a good guy."

"He was. He was the best guy," I suddenly realize we've been standing out here for thirty minutes and that I've been spilling all my memories to a complete stranger. "Sorry for oversharing."

I get another grin, "I don't mind. Gerard sounds amazing."

"Well," I toss away my cigarette butt, "I guess I'll see you around, 211."

"It's – " I shut the door to the apartment building before he's able to get his name out. Maybe it was rude, cruel even. I don't want another name tumbling around in my brain. I just want his, alone, imprinted on the spongy flesh like a brand. I just want him.


	2. ~2~

There’s another bottle of Jack Daniels outside my door on Friday. The sticky note says more this time. Something about noticing the other bottle in the recycling and admitting that’s kind of creepy for him to even know. He also leaves what I assume is a cellphone number, letting me know he’s there if I need someone to talk to. It almost gets thrown away, the bright pink paper crumpled up in my palm, hovering over the trashcan. A little voice in the back of my head tells me I might want it one day. The stupid note ends up under a magnet on the fridge. Having someone help me eat through the pans of lasagna rotting away in the fridge might not be the worst. I really shouldn’t keep bugging Mikey. 

Work is the one place I feel normal. Most of the people around me are temporary workers. They don’t know what happened. They can’t offer an endless reel of condolences and sad smiles. No one asks if there’s anything they can do. They don’t try and talk about how talented and funny he was as if I don’t know. As if being his wife for the past five, almost six years didn’t show me more of him than they could ever hope to know. At work I still get to be Missus Way. I still get to be the girl lucky enough to be married to Gerard Way. For those eight hours, I’m not the widow. I’m Elizabeth Way. Married. Happy. It’s a nice piece of pretend, one I find myself looking forward to. 

Mikey is waiting in the parking lot when I get home. He’s made it a habit of coming over a few times a week. We don’t usually talk. I think he feels closer to his brother at my place. Mostly he just sits on the couch and stares at the wall. Sometimes he falls asleep there, other times we’ll stay up, sipping coffee, exchanging knowing glances. That is one thing I like about Mikey. He doesn’t mind the silence. We can communicate without words. Being around him is easy. We both know how incredible Gerard was, how he could light up a room or make your heart soar with a laugh. That doesn’t need to be said. 

“I’m going to the graveyard tomorrow,” Mikey breaks the silence, setting his mug on the coffee table. 

This is a routine I’ve grown tired of. I haven’t visited his grave since the funeral. That feels too final. Sitting there and knowing that the man I love is buried six feet below me would send me into a spiral. I prefer lounging against the wall of the art room, drinking and smoking cigarettes, soaking in his memory. I don’t need a marble slab with some generic as fuck saying to make me feel close to him. I have Gerard, right here, frozen in time, confined to these four walls. “Do you want money for flowers?” 

“Liz,” Mikey sighs, his eyes wide, silently pleading. The corners of his lips tug down into a frown. I hate how much his facial expressions mirror Gerard’s. “I thought we agreed.” 

“I changed my mind.” 

“It’s been six months, Liz,” Mikey whines back as if this changes anything. As if I’m not painfully aware of how long I’ve been without him. His kisses, the way his arms would envelop me, my head getting lost in the crook of his neck. As if the fact he’s dead isn’t forced down my throat every morning I wake up to an empty bed, every night when I accidentally set out two plates. Maybe it’s been six months, but the wounds still bleed as if that knock came last night. 

“Why are you so adamant that I go?” 

“I think it would be good for you, for you’re healing. It could help you feel closer to him.” 

I scoff, getting up from the couch, throwing my arms out as I slowly spin around, “Closer to him? I am close to him, Mikey! Right here, where he lived! I thought you’d lay off once I stopped calling his phone a million times a day. Besides, I have plans.” 

It’s Mikey’s turn to scoff, one of his perfectly manicured eyebrows arching, “Plans? With who?” 

“Uh – ” Oil slick eyes reflecting the city lights cloud my vision, the smell of cigarettes assaulting my senses, “With the guy across the hall.”

Mikey’s eyes narrow, not believing me for a second. I’ve always been a shit liar, “And what is the guy across the hall’s name?” 

“We don’t use names. He’s 211. I’m 212. That works for us.” 

Gerard’s brother stands, gathering his things as he shakes his head, “You’re so full of shit, Liz. If you didn’t want to go, you could’ve just not shown up. You don’t need to make up friends.” 

“I’m not making him up,” Tearing into the kitchen; I rip the sticky note off the fridge, ignoring the magnet that bounces across the tiles. Mikey staggers backward as I shove the note against his chest. 

Hazel eyes study the scribbles across the bright pink paper. He sighs, handing it back, “Fine. He’s not made up. I’ll be by on Wednesday. Maybe I can meet 211.” 

Shit. As the door slams shut, I sink to the floor, head in my hands. 

He answers on the first ring. I’m not entirely surprised. It seems he’s switched his whole schedule around just be outside when I smoke. It's still weird though, too eager like he’s been staring at his phone just waiting for the call he knew I’d ultimately make. As his voice cracks through the line I almost hang up. I don’t want him here. I don’t want him to sit on the couch or drink from any of the cups.

“Hello?” 

“Uh, 211?” Because I don’t really know what else to say, but sitting here listening to each other breath is unsettling. Gerard and I used to do that. I don’t want to do that with anyone else, ever. 

“If that’s what you’d like to call me. You okay?” 

“Uh, this is gonna sound stupid, but would you want me to bring over some lasagna tomorrow night?” 

There’s a laugh, “You’re really trying to get rid of that stuff, huh?” 

“Yeah, there’s like four pans. The idea of eating it all myself sounds disgusting.” 

For a few minutes he doesn’t say anything. I can hear shuffling around in the background, 211 coughing, “I guess you could bring some over. I work nights. Does four-thirty work for you?” 

“Four-thirty is fine. I’ll knock.” 

Another laugh, this one coming out as more of a high-pitched giggle, muffled with a hand or maybe a pillow, “I never lock the door. Just walk in.” 

“It’s presumptuous of you to think I won’t just wander in and murder you in your sleep.” 

There’s more shuffling around. I wonder if he was trying to sleep or just waking up, “It’s presumptuous of you to think I wouldn’t want that.” He’s quiet for a few seconds, his next words coming out panicky, “Shit. I didn’t – ”

“It’s okay,” I jump in, not wanting to hear the fumbled apology. “I think it’s good to joke about stuff. Joking is better than crying. I’ve done enough crying to last me a lifetime.” 

It’s surprisingly easy to talk to 211. He picks up on my jokes and breezily makes them back. For the next few minutes it almost feels like I’m talking to Gerard. By this time he’d be in his car, the phone hooked up to the speakers. He’d be grinning, feet lifting off the gas pedal as he giggled as some stupid joke only the two of us got the meaning of. This is another piece of pretend, one I could see myself sinking into. Male voices sound the same over the phone. 

“I gotta leave for work,” I hear a door open, shutting shortly after. Something reverberates outside my door. The voice now comes from the hallway instead of through the speakers in my phone. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Four-thirty.” 

“Four-thirty!” I call back, hanging up the phone. Maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought.

~ 

His apartment is earthy, clouded with creamy beige and rich chocolates and deep hunter greens. The light from the courtyard floods in through his living room windows, no curtains to block out prying eyes. A light tan couch sits against the wall, two chairs offsetting it. Those are a fabric, soft and warm to the touch. A fish tank covers the opposite wall, a television mounted above it. A big piece of cut wood on flimsy-looking metal legs acts as a coffee table. I sink my fingers into the deep brown shag carpet as he sits down, dropping two paper plates onto the coffee table. 

“The nice plates are in the dish washer. I do have wine glasses if you want any of that.” 

“Your apartment smells like patchouli,” I mumble absentmindedly. 

Gerard used to like to burn incense. His favorite was myrrh and patchouli. He said it made him feel grounded and more connected to the art he was doing. I always thought it smelled like old men. The familiar scent is welcoming though, making me feel more comfortable in the foreign apartment. 

211 works his fingers over stubble covered cheeks, “Uh, thanks, I think. Wine?” 

“Wine is fine.” 

“Red or white?” 

Gerard liked wine. He thought it was classy. It was also the only alcohol he could drink without wanting to down the whole bottle. Something about it being rich or whatever. I wish I had listened more when he would go off on his romps. I hate how many things I took for granted, just expecting them to happen again and again until the end of time. I usually just drank whatever he had around the apartment. Sometimes it was white. Usually it was red, the type of red that stains your lips and leaves a sticky film behind in your glass. I don’t think I particularly enjoyed either kind. “Red.” 

“You can smoke in here,” 211 sets two glasses and a bottle of dark wine down. “Sorry, I saw your fingers twitching. Mine do that when I need a smoke.” 

I stare down at my fingers still intertwined with the long fibers of the rug, “Just a memory.” 

“Wanna share?” 

I do a shit job of disguising my laugh at a cough, receiving crossed arms and a raised eyebrow in response. 

“Did I say something funny?” 

Shaking my head, I lean back against the couch, kicking my feet out in front of me, “No. It’s just – it’s really stupid. Most people know the stories, they’re fucking tired of me saying Gerard this or Gerard that or Gerard would’ve loved this. You don’t even know him and you’re just asking me to share all these little memories. You almost seem excited to hear them. It’s just different.” 

“You don’t have to share if you don’t want.” 

“That wasn’t what I was saying at all,” I frown, watching the red liquid 211 pours fill the glass in front of me. “It’s refreshing that’s all. It caught me off guard.” 

I get a nod, 211 beginning to eat. For a while we sit silently. It’s not the same silence I share with Mikey or the silences I used to share with Gerard. It’s comfortable nonetheless. We’ve finished off our food and about half the bottle of wine before I decide to share my story. It’s nice to be with someone who doesn’t already know all of Gerard’s quirks. I could probably go on and on for hours before 211 told me to shut up. He seems genuinely interested in my little memories. Quite frankly, I’m pleased to get to share. It helps me remember, to feel closer to him. 

“Gerard was an alcoholic,” I blurt out once the plates have been cleared. 211 brings out something that resembles a cake, one half of it is already missing. “It was pretty bad for a while. We actually broke up for a time during it. Something about him not wanting to drag me down with him. He got better though, to a point he could be around alcohol without losing his shit. Wine was the one thing he could drink. We drank so much of it. Mostly red. He liked the taste better. I used to joke about feeling like I was in church. You bringing it up just made me remember.” 

211 nods, chewing at his bottom lip as I talk. His eyes don’t cloud over like most peoples do. Instead, they maintain a sparkle, remaining on mine as the memory spills forth. He sits with his chin in his hand, nodding gently and smiling as I reach the end. I feel listened to, understood almost. The intensity behind his stare makes me nervous, not like someone’s watching me nervous. It’s more like going on a first date and not knowing what to say or how much to share or if the other person will like the stupid shirt you picked out. I never felt this way with Gerard. I could just let thoughts and ideas spill out of me. He’d always run with them no matter how weird. We’d have long conversations about if the shape of pasta changed the taste or how hot water sounded different filling a glass than cold water. Nervous is a new feeling. I’m not quite sure I enjoy it. 

“You drink though,” 211 muses as I finish up my story. “Either that or you dump expensive whiskey down the drain.” 

I can’t help but laugh. Laughing feels good. It’s something I’ve done less of in the past few months. It sounds weird reverberating back at me, “No. I drink. I always have. I stopped for a little, once Gerard got help and we got back together. I don’t think he ever cared or at least he never said he did. You should get curtains or never have sex in your living room.” 

Above me, 211 sputters, the wine he just pulled into his mouth returning to the glass. His face is a cherry color, eyes wide, “I’m sure it’s hard to believe but between sleeping all day and working all night, I don’t find much time for living room sex.” 

“What a sad life.” 

“I’m assuming Gerard and you had an exciting sex life.” 

It’s my turn to blush, cheeks burning as I attempt to hide them behind my hands, “It was colorful, that’s for sure.” 

We lapse into a comfortable silence. Socked feet appear against the coffee table. A hand lays against the leather couch cushion, just close enough for me to feel its warmth, but not close enough to actually touch me. I appreciate his distance. Since the accident I’ve been weird about touch. Mikey is the only one I willingly accept hugs from, somehow feeling that Gerard’s brother isn’t completely stripping my skin of his memory. My skin remembers Gerard’s touch. The way his fingers would play over my freckles or trace little pictures. The way he’d massage my scalp as he shampooed my hair. The way his lips felt against my neck, my stomach, my thighs. How it felt to be wrapped up in him. I don’t want other people coming in and confusing those touches with their own. 

“I know from the door slammed in my face that you aren’t interested in my name, but I – ”

“It’s Elizabeth. I’m going to keep calling you 211, though.” 

“For as long as you need. 

“Thank you. I promise I wasn’t always this weird.” 

211 crinkles his nose, leaning forward a little as he smiles at me, “I’m sure that’s not true. I have to leave for work. You can stay as long as you’d like. Just pull the door behind you. Don’t lock it though, I lost my key.” 

“Presumptuous of you to think I’m not going to rob you blind.” 

I get another smile, “It’s presumptuous of you to think I’ve got anything worth stealing.” The door shuts quietly behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xoxo FrankiesLilKilljoy  
> ~Keep Running~


	3. ~3~

“Wait, didn’t you just say her husband died?” Ray frowns at me, continuing to toss the bottle of alcohol between his hands.

I grumble, knowing that none of this is ever going to make sense to him. Ray’s unwaveringly tradition when it comes to things like this. I’m sure he’s gearing up for some long-winded lecture if the next words out of my mouth don’t paint a clear picture for him, “I know. She’s just got this enchanting smile and her eyes are so unbelievably sad and I can just tell she’s lonely and wants a friend. And Jesus, the way she talks about her husband. God, she’s so in love with him still. It’s the way every man should want to be talked about. It’s the way _everyone_ should talk about their significant other. She’ll just go on and on about these things that he’s done and then she’ll giggle and shrug it off as if it’s not the most important thing to her. It was just dinner anyway, it didn’t mean anything.”

“It didn’t mean anything until you left her in your apartment alone,” Ray shoots back. “She is not your next great adventure, Frank. You can’t fix her. You said she’s still in love with this guy.”

“She doesn’t need fixing, Ray. That’s not what I’m doing. She needs a friend. She needs someone to share her stories with. I don’t see what’s so wrong about being that friend.”

My best friend huffs, letting his hand fall to his hip, “What’s wrong is you let a complete stranger into your apartment while you aren’t there. You’ve also told her you leave the door unlocked. You don’t know her. She could be unstable. What happens when she’s just sat on your couch when you get home or when you wake up?”

“Then I’ll make her some coffee and ask if she’s okay.” I know it sounds ridiculous. Ray is right. I’ve known Elizabeth for a little over forty-eight hours. In that time she’s talked about killing and robbing me. I know it’s just a joke though. I’m pretty certain she’s just a heartbroken girl who wouldn’t hurt a fly. She seems too gentle. Typically, I’m not wrong about people. I get these feelings around them. Good, honest people make me feel warm, like walking in the front door of my childhood home and being greeted by my mom. Dishonest, shitty people give me a bad taste in my mouth; they make my stomach twist up and little black dots swim before my eyes. Elizabeth is like coming home from college during the Christmas break and the house smelling like gingerbread and mom making vegetarian meatballs. My gut tells me she’s safe. Until proven otherwise, I trust my gut.

Ray lets out a defeated sigh, shaking his head, “You’re delusional, Iero.”

“Maybe.”

“I reserve the right to tell you I told you so when this whole thing blows up in your face.”

I give him a curt nod, “Right reserved, though you’ll never get to cash in.”

“We’ll see.”

Elizabeth is not sat on my couch when I get home. Instead, the dishes are done, stacked up neatly in the drainer. She’s also left a note, stuck to the fridge. Her handwriting is dainty. The letters are each written in capital, the spacing even and consistent. She thanks me for allowing her to offload some of the lasagna and admits to finishing the bottle of wine. She insists she’ll buy me another and I wish I could tell her it isn’t necessary. Being a bartender has its perks. We get all the leftover bottles of alcohol when the bar decides to stop selling it. I’ve got enough wine to get me through this life and few of the next. The end of her note gives me permission to call her, ya know, in case I want to hear any more stories. She’s signed the bottom, _x Liz_. The nickname sounds incorrect. She’s an old soul. Elizabeth fits better.

As I place the note back on the fridge, I notice the pile of laundry sitting on the coffee table. It’s folded, sorted into piles of shirts and pants and boxers. Smirking, I shake my head, collecting the laundry and wandering back to the bedroom. Stripping my clothes off, I flop down into the unmade bed, the blankets consuming me. Rolling to the side, I snatch my phone out of the back pocket of my discarded jeans. Squinting against the brightness of the screen, I go into my recent calls. Her number sits at the top. Careful not to accidentally call, I add her into my contacts. Elizabeth Way. I think she’d like to be called that. She’s also the only W I’ve got in my phone. Settling back against the pillows, I let my fingers trail over the keyboard.

 _Hey, it’s Frank_ – frowning, I delete my name, filling it in with my apartment number – _thanks for folding the laundry, totally not necessary. Glad you enjoyed the wine._ My fingers hover over the keyboard as I debate typing out the last line. Eventually I decide to just take the gamble. It’s not like I’d be losing a long time friend if she thinks I took it too far. _Sleep well, Mrs. Way_.

As I’m about to shut the screen off, I see the chat bubbles pop up. I wait in the silence, watching the little circles bounce up and down. Her response makes me chuckle. I bet Gerard got a kick out of her humor. _Well, I figured between working all night, sleeping all day, and having very public living room sex you’d have no time to fold the clothes. Sleep well 211_.

Never in my life did I think I’d find someone calling me by my apartment number endearing. I guess there’s a time and a place for everything.

There is a bottle of wine sitting on top of my newspaper the next afternoon. Sighing, I let my foot connect with the door across the hall, hoping she’s there, “You didn’t need to get this.”

“Drink it or don’t, 211.”

Grinning I lean down to collect the paper and the bottle. Just as I’m about to shut my door, there is a kick against the back of door 212. I can hear something lean against the grey painted metal, “Do you want some chicken?”

“Vegetarian,” I answer.

“I’ve also got broccoli.”

“Did you order Chinese?”

There’s a muffled sound resembling laughter, “Maybe.”

“What happened to the lasagna?”

The door opens; Elizabeth standing there is an oversized flannel and black pajama shorts. Her hair is done up in a sloppy bun, tendrils of honey brown falling around her face. She lounges against the door frame, curling her arms around her, using the flannel like a blanket, “You try eating nothing but lasagna for six months.”

The way her front door is prevents me from seeing into the apartment. I have to assume it’s a different layout than mine. My door opens into my living room. Elizabeth’s door opens into a hallway, closet doors setting a bland backdrop behind her, “I can imagine. Is it that garlic and honey broccoli from the place up the street?”

“If I said yes would you want some?”

“I just woke up. I’m not sure garlic broccoli is an appropriate breakfast food.”

I get an eye roll, “It’s two in the afternoon. Besides, any food can be for breakfast.”

“They put that on Hallmark cards?”

Elizabeth shakes her head. She disappears for a second, returning with a plastic take out bag and her keys, “I’m working on the copyright. You gonna let me in or would you like to take breakfast in the hall?”

“Come on,” I lead us into the apartment, only realizing I’ve been standing in nothing but my boxers as I shut the door. My cheeks burn, and I try to hide myself behind furniture as Elizabeth digs through my cabinets. “I’ll be right back.”

“This situation is why you should have curtains.”

Jesus Christ. I was really hoping she hadn’t noticed, “Maybe I just need to purchase a bathrobe.”

“Curtains work as both!” Elizabeth calls after me as I shut the bedroom door.

She’s sat at the coffee table when I return. The container of broccoli sits next to hers, a fork sticking out of it. I sink to the floor, spearing a piece of broccoli and shoveling it into my mouth. Words sit at the end of my tongue but I try and swallow them back. I’m not sure just how much I can pry at Elizabeth before she decides being my acquaintance was a bad decision. The struggle continues for some time, the words crawling up my throat, pushing at my lips only to be swallowed down in a mouthful of garlic and honey.

“Whatever it is you want to say you might as well say it,” Elizabeth huffs, pushing her container of chicken away from her. “Its awfully awkward to sit and watch you struggle.”

Coughing, I beat on my chest. Of course she’s observant. Of course I’m about as easy as a children’s book to read, “Were you always so open?”

“About?”

“Everything. You joke about sex and nakedness and talk about your life as if it’s commentary on the weather.”

Elizabeth shrugs, leaning back against the foot of the couch. Her head rests on the cushions, eyes fixed at the wood beamed ceiling, “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“No. It’s just different.”

“I’ve always found it strange, what topics people feel are taboo. They’re just words, subjects. If you don’t talk about them, joke about them, they feel much bigger than they are. Had I not mentioned you only wearing boxers you would’ve worried about it all day. Now that I’ve stated the fact, it’s been addressed and you can keep on thinking about whatever else it is you’ve got to think about.”

I blink back at her in awe, “You act like it’s that simple.”

“It is. You and everyone else just make it more complicated.”

Settling my fork down, I mirror Elizabeth’s position, our heads tilted toward each other, “I bet you gave Gerard a run for his money during arguments.”

“No. He was much smarter than me. All the whimsical, philosophic stuff I say comes from him. He saw the world differently from most people. It opened my eyes. He always had something to teach me, to show me, a way to make me look at things from all directions. Our conversations were refreshing and open-minded. It’s hard to find someone I can talk to like that.”

As Elizabeth talks about Gerard her eyes light up, the honey flecks in the deep brown ignited, “Does he have siblings?”

“Mikey. They are quite near polar opposites. Both analytical, just in different ways. Mikey likes to go through logical arguments, weigh the pros and cons. Gerard takes a more idealistic approach. He liked to see the good in everything, the positive outcomes. Mikey’s a bit more cynical. Why do you care so much?”

The breath I’m trying to take in gets caught in my throat, sending me into yet another coughing fit. I was not expecting that question. So far, Elizabeth has accepted my listening ear. I suppose if I had been looking at things a bit more logically, I would’ve seen it coming. Logic seems to escape me quite often. I prefer to go off feelings. Your gut and heart are much smarter than your brain. The brain can come up with all sorts of terrible scenarios. Your heart and your gut only know good and bad. I can deal with good and bad. “You just seem liked you need a friend.”

Elizabeth nods slowly. I can almost see the gears in her head turning, mulling over the words I’ve just spoken. Her bottom lip, thin and fragile looking, disappears between her teeth. “Perhaps. Perhaps you also need a friend.”

Grinning, I nod my agreement, “Perhaps. Do you have work?”

“Trying to get rid of me?”

“No. Curious.”

Elizabeth lets out a half-laugh from the back of her throat, lips never parting, “I never have work on Monday, at least not this time of year.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m the make-up and special effects coordinator for Broadway productions. It’s a lot of walkie-talkies and petroleum jelly.”

I let out a snort, “Sounds kinky.”

“Definitely kinky,” Elizabeth chuckles. “You did the thing.”

“What thing?”

“You said words and didn’t weigh their consequences beforehand.”

Rolling my eyes, I shake my head, hair grating against the surface of my couch, “I guess I did.”


	4. ~4~

I'm not entirely sure why I ended up at the graveyard. I’m also not sure how I found his grave amongst the thousands of others dotting the tree littered horizon. Regardless of reason or means, I’m sat in front of Gerard’s grave. The stone is smooth, grey speckled with black and white and little hints of purple. Etched into the marble is his full name; Gerard Arthur Way. The date he was born is separated from the date he died by an intricate leaf. The words beloved son, brother, and husband sit in the middle of the stone. There’s an assortment of flowers shoved into the vase attached to the headstone, all in various stages of life or decay. 

“Something tells me you wouldn’t be thrilled with the inscription,” I mumble, running my fingers through the manicured grass. “From what I’ve heard you were so much more than those words. I’m Frank, by the way. Or 211 as Elizabeth likes to call me. I shouldn’t like that nickname, but I do.” 

If Ray could see me now he’d probably insist I’ve tipped over the edge. He wouldn’t accept my explanation. He rarely does. After spending the past few days with Elizabeth, I feel like I should meet her husband. It seems appropriate. Just because I can’t physically introduce myself, doesn’t mean I don’t want to. I’m sure he’d appreciate it. Elizabeth doesn’t seem like the type of person to keep secrets. I’m sure Gerard and her were the type of couple that told each other everything, from how much sugar they put in their coffee that morning to new friends and deep-seated fears. Elizabeth makes it seem like that anyway. 

“You’re wife speaks highly of you. She describes you in such vibrant colors, I feel like I know you more than I know her. Maybe that’s better. Maybe I need to know you to know her. To understand one is to understand the other,” I frown. Talking to someone who can’t respond, who I don’t even know, isn’t my strong suit. This is more a string of consciousness than anything else. Despite the awkwardness that seems to cling to me like a cold fog, I continue on. “She misses you so fucking much. Like when she walks into my living room, I feel it. Instead of wearing perfume, she wears you. That’s another type of love. You are an incredibly lucky man. I’m not sure she sees that you’re still there. Maybe she does and I’m just shit at reading people. I’m trying to help her. I just wanted you to know that. I think she needs someone. I think stopping outside to have a cigarette after work was fate. I don’t know if I’m the right person for the job, but I want you to know I’m trying.” 

Getting up, I let my fingers linger against the cold marble. The wind picks up, sending leaves flying across the sky. They dance in an array of colors, the fading November sun creating little halos around the shapes. Nodding, I smile, knowing in my heart that those leaves are Gerard telling me to keep going, that he wants me to help Elizabeth in any way that I can. 

~

“Jesus, Mikey! I’m a grown woman, not a little kid, I don’ need to be babysat,” Elizabeth’s fist makes contact with the hallway wall as I round the corner. The harsh, elevated sounds seem foreign coming from such a gentle face. 

A taller man shields her. His hair is dirty-blonde, streaks of chestnut brown breaking up the lighter bits. He’s leaning against the apartment door, leather-covered arms crossed over his chest. One of his feet remains firmly planted to the worn-out carpet, the other tipped up, the star-shaped pattern of his boot sole visible. 

“I’m not calling you a child. I’m just saying you should come to dinner. You can’t stay holed up in your apartment all the time.” 

“I leave the apartment. I go to work. I have dinner with people.” Her eyes sweep the hall, landing on me. “211!” 

“Oh don’t pull this crap again,” the guy groans, lifting a hand to rub at tired-looking eyes. As he turns to see what Elizabeth is looking at, he smacks into me. “Shit. Sorry.” 

“No big deal,” I shuffle around my grocery bags, offering him my hand, “211.” 

The man scowls over at Elizabeth, his already chiseled jaw sharpening, “Michael. I guess you do exist.” 

“That’s what they tell me,” I answer, shifting my weight from foot to foot. There could not have been a worse moment for me to get back to the apartment. Dropping the bags outside my door, I dig through them, pulling out a bottle of alcohol. Straightening back up, I hand it to Elizabeth, “They were out of Jack. I hope Captain Morgan is okay.” 

Elizabeth takes the bottle, staring down at it, “I’m not sure rum and whiskey are quite the same, but hey, I’m not picky.” She turns her attention back to Michael. “Is this conversation over, Michael?” Elizabeth says his name with venom.

“Just consider dinner, Liz, please? It would make my mom feel better. She hasn’t really seen you since the funeral. She misses you.” 

She lets out a defeated sigh, shrugging her shoulders, “I’ll think about it, no promises.” 

This answer seems to be enough for Michael. He heaves out a sigh before waving and disappearing into the stairwell. I wait until I hear the second door swing open, turning to face Elizabeth, “Brother?” 

“Yup,” Her bottom lip gets captured between her teeth, flopping out as she shakes her head, letting out a long sigh. “That’s Mikey. Do you want help with the groceries?” 

Shrugging, I push the apartment door open, “Do you want to tell me what’s so bad about dinner?” 

“It’s just – I should preface this with the fact that I love Gerard’s family. They’re inviting and have always accepted me as one of the bunch. I am forever thankful that I ended up with such pleasant in-laws. They’re just pushy. Donna wants to talk about all the things Gerard was. She wants to apologize and cry. Donald just sits there and smokes with this look on his face like the whole world could end tomorrow and he wouldn’t care.” Elizabeth pauses, holding up a bottle of cooking oil, her eyebrow arched in question. “I’m sure this makes me sound like such a bitch. Oh, Elizabeth doesn’t want to have a conversation and help other people heal. I just – it’s hard.” 

Taking the bottle of oil, I tuck it into the cabinet next to the fridge, “I don’t think it sounds bitchy. Everyone heals differently. Sometimes you need to be alone to heal.” 

“I know he’s dead. I do. Having other people talk about it is different. It’s like I’ve created a world where I can accept, where I’ve learned to function without him. Stepping outside that world throws things off-kilter.” 

I almost swallow down my next comment, worried it’s too insensitive. Our conversation from the other night swirls around in my brain, forcing my lips apart, the question hanging in the air, “Do I throw that world off-kilter?” 

Elizabeth smiles, little lines creasing the edges of her eyes, “No. You fit in nicely next to the lamp, between the couch and the side table. Kind of like an art piece, a talking sculpture.” 

“Ah, one of those things that turns into a good dumping ground for jackets.” 

I get a laugh this time, Elizabeth’s teeth grazing over her delicate lower lip, “I own a coat rack.” The smile fades, the remains shining brightly in chocolate eyes, “You fit in because you don’t. You weren’t there. You don’t know him. It’s like; talking to you is a different world. Maybe it’s the world I’m supposed to be putting myself back into, the world everyone else lives in. It’s not as scary if it’s just one person.” 

“I can be pretty scary when I want to be,” I joke back, trying to clear some of the heaviness from our conversation. Sure, Elizabeth needs to muddle through her current situation, but she also needs to remember to laugh and goof around. Too much heavy just breaks your back. 

Elizabeth raises an eyebrow, looking thoroughly unconvinced, “I’m sure you’re a real modern-day Jason.” 

“Naw, I’d be doing the world a disservice by covering this face with a hockey mask.”

“I think you mispronounced favor,” Elizabeth answers back, sticking her tongue out at my faux offense. 

“I have a proposition,” I announce as we settle onto the couch. This is the first time we’ve actually ended up using the cushions as more than a headrest. “What if you go to dinner with Gerard’s parents and then after you can come visit me at the bar and complain about how terrible it was.” 

Elizabeth rolls her head to the side so she’s able to look at me, even then it’s more of an annoyed side-eye than actual eye contact. She looks like a child who’s just been told they have to eat all their vegetables before they can have dessert, “What makes you think I’d want to visit you at work?” 

“Fine. Show up in my apartment and complain. I think you should go to dinner. If you don’t they’ll just keep pestering.” 

Elizabeth’s head sways back and forth, her lips slightly parted as she hems and haws, “What’s the address to this stupid bar anyway?” 

~

When I’d given Elizabeth the address, I honestly wasn’t expecting her to show up. She doesn’t seem like the kind of person to hang out in a place like this. It’s more of a punk venue with a bar tucked in the back. It’s usually loud, clouds of cigarette smoke hanging in the air. Yet, as she pushes her way through the crowd of patrons, I can’t help but smile. She’s wearing her hair down today, creating a rich frame around her pale skin. The sage green sweater she’s wearing falls off her shoulder, exposing the beginnings of what looks to be a flower tattoo. A golden chocker sits at the base of her neck, glittering in the low lighting. As she walks over, I nudge Ray. 

“211,” Elizabeth nods, glancing around before she sits down on the barstool. “I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.” 

Shrugging, I work my fingers against the side of my neck, “Can I get you anything to drink?” 

“Surprise me,” Elizabeth answers lazily, “I can smoke in here, right?” 

Nodding, I busy myself behind the bar. I’m not actually sure what Elizabeth likes to drink. She’s accepted every bottle of alcohol I’ve left outside her door without complaint. I know she’s got a thing for red wine, but that feels inappropriate. This is like a test, she’s seeing if I’ve been paying attention. Maybe I’m reading too much into this. The bottle of vodka slips through my fingers, hitting the mat on the floor. Definitely overthinking this. As I set the glass on the counter Ray clears his throat.

“Oh, Ray, this is Elizabeth. Elizabeth, meet my pig-headed co-worker, Ray.”

Elizabeth stirs the drink I’ve placed before her, “Pleasure. What is this?” 

“Old Glory,” I answer back. It’s one of my favorites despite being labeled a fruity girl drink. “I figured you’d had a lot of dark liquor lately, maybe vodka would be a nice change.” 

Elizabeth shrugs, lifting the glass to maroon painted lips. Her eyes flick to Ray, “Does he always make such incredibly strong drinks?” 

“Only for the pretty girls,” Ray laughs, tapping me in the calf with the toe of his shoe before moving off to help other customers. 

“You’ll have to forgive his complete lack of manners,” I mumble back, thanking whoever decided to make the lighting in here low enough to hide my blush. “How did dinner go?” 

“As I expected. We didn’t even make it through the salad before Donna started with the waterworks. We looked at all the baby pictures for our main course. And for dessert, I got to sit on Gerard’s childhood bed and listen to how it took him until the age of twelve to ride a bike and learn to swim. I’m going to need about a dozen of these – ” Elizabeth lifts her nearly empty glass from the bar “– to completely blackout the whole event.” 

I let out a snort of laughter, already beginning to make another drink, “I’m sorry. Was Mikey pleasant at least?” 

“As pleasant as someone who thinks you’re going to jump off a building can be. He thinks I’m still in denial, which I’m not. I know Gerard is dead. I’m made aware of that all the time. People can’t seem to stop telling me my husband is deceased. I don’t leave the apartment; I’m depressed. I go out and try to be social and I’m forgetting him. You can’t really win with Mikey.” 

“You talked about me?” The words spill out without my permission, hanging in the air as I clap a hand over my mouth. I know Elizabeth is all about saying things without thinking of the consequences, but that’s skewed logic. Words do have consequences, they can hurt or heal. Some words should never be said aloud. 

Despite my increasing embarrassment, Elizabeth seems unfazed, reaching over the bar to grab another napkin, “You were mentioned. Apparently, Mikey doesn’t like the way you look at me, whatever the hell that means.” 

“I’ll be sure to keep my eyes to myself.” 

Elizabeth laughs a little, giving me a curt nod, “As you should, 211.” 

She’s sat outside in the hall when I get back from work. Her back is pressed up against the apartment door, knees drawn to her chest. I can see from the smeared eye make-up that she’s been crying. Bloodshot eyes swivel around to look at me as I stop in front of my door. After the fourth drink, I stopped counting. It appears Elizabeth has had more too drink than she needed. 

“What happened?” 

“I left my house key at the Way’s.” 

Of course she did. Offering a hand, I help Elizabeth up off the floor, “Come on.” Pushing the apartment door open, I usher Elizabeth inside. “You can sleep here tonight.” And despite promising I’d keep my eyes to myself, I just can’t.


	5. ~5~

Gentle humming floats in through the cracked door. The smell of coffee takes over my senses. If I just lay here, eyes still closed, breathing gentle and even, I can pretend its Gerard. I can wait here, snuggled under the covers until he comes in to wake me up. He’ll stand beside the bed, leaning his weight on his forearms. His hair will tickle my cheek as he presses gentle kisses to my forehead, each eyelid, my nose, and finally my lips. I’ll grumble and demand he come back to bed. If not already running late to work he will, leaving whatever breakfast food he’s preparing to burn on the stove. We’ll laugh about how shit we both are at cooking while we sip our coffee, watching the sun filter in through the branches of the tree growing outside the window. 

Gerard isn’t here though. This isn’t our bed. He’ll never saunter into the bedroom wearing just an apron, a can of whipped cream in hand. I’ll never feel the press of his lips against mine, or feel his fingers tangle in my hair. He’ll never lay awake tracing over my sunflower tattoo, quickly trying to pretend to be asleep when I roll over. I’ll never hear his soft, smooth singing voice mixing with the pattering of shower water. I’ll never get to stand against the doorframe to the art room, a coffee warming my hands, his tongue lulled out over his bottom lip as he works on his next masterpiece. A lump forms in my throat, threatening tears. My heart aches, the lonely kind of ache. That kind of ache you get when you’re in a room full of people, but you feel utterly invisible. 

“Hey,” there’s a gentle knock on the door, the mattress sinking as someone sits. “I brought coffee.” 

Groaning, I rub at my eyes, feeling a familiar wetness. I’ve been crying in my sleep again, “Hey. Sorry about last night.” 

211’s face comes into focus. The smile that seems to be permanently etched into his features greats me. My house keys are looped around his pinkie finger, “No need to apologize. I found these hooked around your door handle.” 

I smile at the Batman keychain. Gerard got that for me soon after we moved in here. I’m pretty shit at keeping track of my things and refuse to carry around a purse. He thought a keychain would help me keep tabs on the key. Taking the keys from 211, I press the cool metal against my chest, “Sometimes Mikey Way is a blessing.” 

“Batman fan?” 211 questions as I sit up in bed, taking the coffee mug he’s offering me. 

“Gerard.” 

“I’m more of a Superman guy, myself.” 

I stare at him over the lip of the coffee mug, “This is not a conversation you want to have before I’ve finished my coffee.”

We lapse into a comfortable silence. 211 drags a socked toe over the hardwoods, picking at some of the flaking polish on his nails. 

“You were crying in your sleep.” 

“Yes. I tend to do a lot of that. Crying,” I answer lazily. “You sat at the end of the bed for a long time last night.” 

My words cause the man in front of me to jump slightly, his shoulders shooting up, lips parting slightly. He looks quite funny when he’s embarrassed, deep crimson rising to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t going to throw up.” 

“I see. Shouldn’t you still be sleeping?” 

211 shakes his head, a few pieces of hair falling from behind his ear and covering an eye, “I’m usually up by noon. I wanted to make sure you were up before I left for band practice.” 

Gerard attempted to learn guitar while we were in college. His AA sponsor told him that picking up hobbies would help keep his mind off drinking. Liking music, Gerard thought learning an instrument would be suitable. We went to a Guitar Center and each picked out something we wanted to learn. Gerard picked out a cherry red Gibson. It left the stand a total of a dozen times before he gave up completely. He’d picked up piano much faster. Sometimes I’d come home to booming rock anthems and other’s I’d come home to soft candlelight and Clair de Lune. We joked about him starting a one-man band, just him and the piano. It was intoxicating to hear him sing along to the rhythms he could pull from the cheap keyboard. I used to put on a nightgown, gliding through the living room as I danced to his fingers gently pressing against the black and white keys. 

Something tells me 211 doesn’t play love songs on a piano though. He doesn’t seem to be the tender kind. I bet his music is loud and bombastic, filling up whatever space he’s playing, “Of course you’re in a band.” 

“I -” 211 blushes, trying to hide his face in his own coffee cup, “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or a jab.” 

I shrug lazily; resting my head against the fabric headboard, “Take it as you will.” 

“Compliment it is. You should come to a show sometime. We play the bar I work at mostly, sometimes other places when they’ll have us.” 

Gerard and I used to go to shows all the time. We’d hole up in a smoky bar, listening to act after act. He bought us Smith’s tickets for an anniversary once. I never listened to music before I met Gerard, not properly anyway. He introduced me to everything. His face would light up as I sat with headphones on, bobbing my head in time to the beat. Every day it was something new. He showered me in records and CDs, making endless playlists for me to listen to on the train into work. Now I can’t seem to get enough. I’ve worn out most of the discs, listening to the songs that remind me of him most over and over. 

“What kind of music?” 

“Punk.” 

Not my favorite genera, but there are a few bands that Gerard showed me that I enjoyed. I’ve decided that I’m going to keep 211 around, at least for a little. He’s fascinating. While coming across as quite cocky, he never looks like he’s necessarily comfortable in his own skin. He shifts around too much, fingers constantly working against the tattoo on his neck. The way he moves through the world is so different from Gerard. Gerard glided, knowing exactly where he was going and just how to get there. 211 stumbles, tripping over his own two feet, eyes squeezed shut, arms flailing around in front of him. He’s also got this carefree aura around him. You can throw any topic at him and he’ll roll with it, often making a complete fool of himself. Gerard was always delicate with words. Though no topic was ever off the table, Gerard would often think for hours about just what he wanted to say. We’d start a conversation during our morning shower that he’d pick it right back up that night over dinner. They are utterly different, but someone similar. Sometimes when I look into 211’s oil-slick eyes, I see Gerard. It’s mildly terrifying. 

“Maybe I will.” 

My answer seems to catch 211 off guard. He sputters, spitting his mouthful of coffee back into the cup. I contain a giggle as he collects himself, giving me a nod. “Good.” 

He stares at me. For a few seconds, I let myself be hypnotized by the light greens and stormy blues and little flecks of gold. Just for a second. Just until it feels dangerous. Tugging my gaze away, I take another sip of coffee, itching for a cigarette. “Haven’t you got somewhere to be?” 

“Oh yeah,” his fingers brush against the tattoo on his neck. “You know the way out?” 

“I think I can manage. See you around, 211.” 

~

“Well, what was I meant to do,” I grumble into the phone hours later, “sleep in the hall?” 

Mikey called to make sure I found my keys, the conversation quickly to turning into an argument. It’s not necessarily that Mikey and I don’t get along. In fact, I remember countless nights in the living room, Mikey and I drunk off our asses, Gerard attempting to teach us some card game he learned in the college commons. Mikey and I used to get breakfast, chasing our hangovers away with too much coffee and greasy diner food. We used to talk for hours on the phone, coming up with our own inside jokes just to rile Gerard up. After Gerard died things between Mikey and me changed. He’s often agitated, snipping at me over the tiniest things. I’m not healing the way he is. It’s driven a wedge between us. Mikey compartmentalizes. He’s good at putting things in boxes, focusing on one thing at a time. My brain is more scattered. The file cabinets are all thrown open at once, the papers inside getting all tangled together. 

“You could’ve called, Liz. I would’ve come and got you or brought you your keys. This guy is a stranger.” 

Letting out an exasperated sigh, I flop down onto the couch, my little finger instantly finding the cigarette burn against the crushed velvet surface, “He was just looking out for me. Besides, he’s not really a stranger. I’ve known him for at least a week now.” 

“A week doesn’t make you friends.” 

“Time is a social construct, Mikey.” 

Gerard’s brother lets out a breathy laugh, “Jesus, you sound just like him. Were you always like this or did Gerard turn you into a philosophical monster?” 

“I feel as if you’ve known me long enough to already know,” I answer back, placing a cigarette between my lips and lighting it. 

“I didn’t know you before he got a hold of you,” Mikey admits, his tone evening out, sounding almost friendly. I miss these kinds of conversations. Where no one sounds strained or upset, where we can just talk like the friends we are. 

“I was a wild child,” I watch my cigarette smoke curl up toward the ceiling, “Gerard tamed me.” 

“And you made him wild,” I can hear the smile in Mikey’s words. “You two really were perfect.” 

I twist my wedding ring around my finger. A simple silver circle with a single diamond, cut into a square, sitting up off the band just a little. Gerard’s name is printed in cursive around the inside, sometimes leaving a little indent on my finger. His wedding ring is hung around my neck on a thin chain. My name sits around the inside. There are a few flecks of paint around the outside, unable to ever be washed off completely. I think Gerard was meant to be buried with it. I’m pretty sure Mikey played a part in it finding its way to me. I can only imagine how much bickering he had to do with Donna to get his way. 

“As close to perfect as two humans can get.” 

“That’s from his vows.” 

“Yes,” a kick to my door pulls my attention. “Dinner on Monday?” 

“I’ll see you then. Bye, Liz.” 

There’s a bottle of red wine outside my door. In familiar fashion, a neon pink sticky note accompanies it. This one has an address, a date, and a time on it. I’m left to assume it’s for one of 211’s shows. Placing this new sticky note on the fridge next to the previous one, I open the wine bottle. 

Gentle piano music floats through the computer speakers. I’m glad that Gerard let me record him playing. The sounds bring me comfort. When words fail, the gentle melodies seem to know exactly what I need. I stare at the images flashing before my eyes, seeing nothing more than blurs of jet-black and honey brown. Tears glide down my face, bouncing against the plastic tarp laid over the floor. By the time the sun begins to sink I’m sat against the back wall in the art room, eyes fixed on the half-finished superhero, pleasantly drunk. The ache in my throat has subsided, toned down to a low burn, making it hard to swallow, but at least I can breath. The loneliness is still there, wrapping its arms around me like an old friend, and maybe that’s what it is. Maybe this is how I felt before I fell, quite ungracefully, into Gerard’s life. Maybe this is how I’m meant to feel without him, from now until eternity, miserably alone.


	6. ~6~

The week passes slowly. Dinner with Mikey is pleasant. Not a forced pleasant either. There are no faked smiles and half-assed pleasantries. We talk and drink. Mikey and his wife are planning on moving out of the city soon, both ready to start a family. I tell him about work, offering up two tickets to opening night of the show I've been helping with. He's brought another pan of Donna's lasagna. It gets slid into the freezer with the others, probably never to be touched. I appreciate the efforts, but there's only so much cheese and pasta one person can eat. Mikey leaves with the promise of returning later in the week. We avoid the graveyard conversation, which I'm thankful for. I know I should go. The task just seems too big for right now. I'll go eventually when I'm ready. Gerard would understand.

I don't see much of 211. He's never home or at least not awake when I knock. Perhaps he's also tired of lasagna. He has made it a habit of calling each night when he gets home from work though. We'll talk until he falls asleep, often about nothing at all. He'll ramble on about eccentric customers or how excited he is for this upcoming show. Mostly he listens, letting me go on and on about work or Gerard or something funny I saw on television. I enjoy listening to his voice, hearing the mumbled and then what happened or sleepy hums of reply. For a few hours, the loneliness get's chased away. I can close my eyes and pretend Gerard is on a business trip, calling me before he goes to bed to tell me about his day. It's not nearly the same, but it is nice to hear someone else talk and laugh. The quietness of the once lively apartment can become oppressive at times. Typically, I'm awake for the calls, often wandering the apartment unable to crawl into an empty bed. On the off chance that I have fallen asleep, 211 leaves a voicemail, ending off with a sleep well Missus Way. I like that he calls me that. I'm beginning to think he's realizing it.

~

The wrought iron fence of the cemetery blurs through the rain-soaked windshield. This is the closest I've ever made it to Gerard's final resting place. Usually, I'll set out with the intention to go see him, lose my nerve halfway through, and end up at the strip mall up the street. I know he'd understand my hesitation. We went through the same thing when his grandmother died. For months after he couldn't bring himself to stand in front of that little grey stone. It felt too final for him, in much the same way it feels for me now.

Allowing the car to continue to run, the hot air creating a layer of fog between the graveyard and me, I turn up the radio. One of the CDs Gerard made for me is in the stereo, filling the small space with bombastic guitars and growling drums. Leaning my head back against the seat, I close my eyes. Despite feeling a bit silly, I begin to talk aloud, my words mixing in with the song lyrics.

"That guy from 211 wants me to go to one of his shows. Remember me telling you about the 211 guy? I'm sure you do. You were always good at remembering things. I'm not sure I want to go. This will be the first show I've been to without you. I don't want to sit there without you whispering little comments in my ear or drumming your fingers against my thigh. I do think he's a nice guy though, Gee. He's happy and patient and laughs at things that shouldn't be funny. Sometimes when I'm with him, I almost feel okay again."

"I'm sorry I've started drinking so heavily. I know you'd be disappointed even if you did say it was okay. It helps me sleep. I don't sleep well without you there. I just wish I could talk to you again. You always knew just what to say. You'd know if I should trust 211. Hell, if you were still here I wouldn't even need to talk to 211. If you were still here I wouldn't be sitting in this stupid car talking to myself. I'd be sat on the window ledge with coffee watching the rain as you sketched. Life is so hard without you. I don't know who I'm meant to be or what I'm supposed to do. The right things, the things people tell me I should be doing, all feel wrong."

The sun cuts through the gloom, just a glimmer, bouncing off the droplets collecting on the hood of the car. For a few seconds, I'm able to push the logical part of myself aside. I let myself believe that ray of light is Gerard smiling down on me, letting me know that I'll somehow figure everything out and that he's proud of me for pushing forward.

I end up at Mikey's apartment, curled into the corner of the couch. Kristin, Mikey's wife goes on and on about how stressful moving is. I do my best to sympathize, nodding and offering various words of understanding when appropriate. It isn't that I don't care. In fact, it's easier to listen to other people talk about their lives barreling forward than dealing with my stagnate one. I was hoping Mikey would be here. I wanted to tell him I managed to get myself at least close to the cemetery. Something in me needs his approving smile, his fingers moving over my shoulder before he pulls me into a hug. Mikey's hugs are nothing like Gerard's, but they're what I have. I could melt into Gerard, his skin soft and warm under my touch. He'd hold me for hours if I wanted, content to run his fingers through my hair or up and down my spine. Mikey's hugs are stiffer, lasting no more than a few minutes at most. I want Gerard's embrace back. I want someone to hold me like they need me like with me pressed against them it's a little easier to breathe.

"Mikey mentioned you're trying to have kids," I cut through Kristin's rambles about packing boxes and wanting to sell their furniture and just start fresh.

Kristin blushes, sweeping a few stray strands of hair behind her ear, "Yeah. We've been trying for a few months now. We both think it's time. He's very cute with the whole thing. I catch him looking through baby books and planning out a nursery. He's even come up with a few names."

"He'll make a good dad, easy and too forgiving, but good nonetheless."

Mikey's wife laughs, "I've already accepted the fact I'll be the bad guy. Gerard would have made a good dad too."

"We didn't want kids."

Gerard and I were content in ourselves. We enjoyed being able to make-out in the living room and take spontaneous trips. He was worried about passing on his addictive personality to children. We both felt that there are too many ways to screw up a kid. It was a conversation we had shortly after our wedding night. Though seeing a little Gerard running around sounded adorable, I understood his concerns. We were both still young, wanting to explore life as a couple. It was best with just the two of us. At one point we'd talked about getting a dog, but it never came to fruition. I'm not sure either one of us would ever have been quite mature enough to handle raising a child. How are you supposed to tell a child they can't have ice cream for dinner when that's what you've been eating for the past few months? It just didn't make sense for us to have kids.

Kristin offers me a sad smile, "I hope you're at least willing to babysit."

"Of course I'll babysit. No promises that your kid won't return covered in paint with weird ideas of the world, though."

I get a gentle pat on the shoulder, "I'd expect nothing less. Tell me about this guy Mikey says you've been hanging out with. What's his name?"

"I don't know. I just call him by his apartment number. Honestly, I don't know all that much about him. He's in a band. He listens to me ramble on about Gerard. We've had dinner together a few times. He's not tried to make a move, which I appreciate. I told you about my assistant, right?"

Kristin's eyes widen, knees curling up against the couch cushion, "No what happened with Ryan?"

"So you know how I took some time off after everything? Well, when I came back he had this whole party thing planned with flowers and cake and everything as if I was having a birthday instead of my husband dying," I begin talking with my hands, a trait Gerard always called cute. "Anyway, he pulled me aside and told me he'd always had feelings for me and wanted to take me out when I was feeling better."

Kristin lets out a snort, "Men are incredibly stupid sometimes."

"Oh, it gets better," I insist. "After all of that and after I turned him down he tried to kiss me. If he wasn't so good at his job I'd just fire him."

"This guy, whatever his name is, hasn't tried anything like that?"

I shake my head, "That night I left my keys here, he let me stay in his bed. He slept on the couch. I wouldn't have known if he crawled in bed next to me, but he didn't. He keeps his distance."

"Do you want him to keep his distance?"

I toss the couch pillow at her, laughing as she bats it away, "Of course I do."

"Well you know, it might not be bad to let someone in, at least for a night," Kristin jokes, rolling her eyes as I open my mouth to protest. "It might be good for you to get under someone else."

"Kristin! You perv. I'm not going to sleep with anyone ever again let alone a practical stranger."

"He wouldn't want you to stop your whole life, Liz," Kristin gives me a pointed look. "He'd be happy that you were happy."

"Yeah," I let out a sigh, my chin finding its way to my knee, "He probably would be."


	7. ~7~

In all honesty, I didn't actually expect her to show up. She seemed less than impressed with my description of the kind of music my band plays. We haven't actually talked about the show since that night about a week ago. I figured she was trying to wave off my invitation without actually saying it. Yet, as she settles herself onto one of the ratty couches near the stage, I can't help but grin. Her hair is tied up in two messy knots on either side of her head, a few strands breaking free to fall in her face. The black pants she's got on are covered in patches, some sewn right on, others held in place by a few safety pins. One of the knees is ripped out, Elizabeth absentmindedly playing with the frayed strings. The red of her shirt sits out against her pale skin, just peeking through the oversized leather jacket wrapped around her.

"Keep your eyes in their sockets, man," Ray rolls his eyes, running his shoulder into mine. "She's just a girl."

I shake my head at the other guitarist, "Naw, she's not just a girl."

"You're being delusional."

"Probably."

I watch Elizabeth through most of our set. The corners of her lips are tugged up, the stage lights bouncing in her eyes. She watches me from under her eyelashes, looking beautifully indifferent to everything going on around her. I do catch her tapping her foot against the concrete floor or bobbing her head though. At one point, her dark-tinted lids close, teeth sunk into her bottom lip as her whole body sways gently back and forth. When I announce the last song, Elizabeth looks up at me, lines creasing the area around her eyes, a few tears escaping the corners. As I begin to play I wonder if they're happy or sad tears.

Elizabeth stands as I bow off stage. Her eyes follow me as I walk over, taking a seat on the couch. She joins me, pulling a leg up underneath her, "So?"

"Well, I didn't want to take a screwdriver to my ears," Elizabeth answers with a shrug. "I didn't know you could sing."

"I can't. Honestly, Ray should be the one singing. His voice is so much better than mine. He just wants to focus on playing guitar though so I got shoved up there."

"Why are you doing that?"

I arch an eyebrow, "Doing what?"

"Putting yourself down. You sing fine. I think it fits with the cracked around the edges playing and angsty lyrics. You've got nice grit to your voice. I could hear that you care about what you're saying. Now – " Elizabeth's hands meet her thighs with a muted slap "– why don't you get me a drink. Nothing against the current bartender, but he's not nearly as heavy-handed as you."

"I'm definitely telling him you said that."

Elizabeth waves her hand dismissively, "By all means."

Somehow Ray, Elizabeth, and I end up in my living room. I lean against the couch, watching as Ray attempts to teach a heavily intoxicated Elizabeth one of the riffs from the show tonight. Her face is tinted red; eyebrows screwed together, her tongue poking out over her bottom lip. Unsteady fingers press into the strings, the pick moving clumsily. Eventually, she gives up, spinning in a circle on socked feet, launching into something she knows. It actually sounds good, the notes whining out over the amp.

"You never told you could play guitar," I comment as Elizabeth flops down on the couch next to me. Her hair has fallen out of the knots, tangling around her face.

"It never came up in conversation," She gives Ray a pointed look as he places my guitar back on its stand. "I'm going to learn that part."

Ray's eyebrows cock up as he gives Elizabeth a nod, "I'm holding you to that, Way."

"You do that," Elizabeth stands, heading for the door. "I'll see you around, 211."

~

"So do you like her?" Ray questions the next night at work.

I lean against the bar, continuing to towel dry the various glasses my friend hands to me. I've been avoiding answering this question all night. I'm not scared of his reaction to my answer, I'm used to Ray chastising my choices. The truth is, I don't know what answer to give him. I've only known Elizabeth for a few weeks. Most of our conversations involve her sharing stories about Gerard. I feel more equipped to answer if I like Gerard. I sure as hell know more about him than I do Elizabeth. I know his favorite color, how he takes his coffee, his view on the world, how he used to do almost everything. I have less sufficient information about Elizabeth. She shares minuscule details about herself, shoved into some story about when Gerard was alive.

I do enjoy spending time with her. The way she describes things is enchanting. I feel like I'm there in the memory with her. She's incredibly funny in a cynical, sarcastic way. I'm not sure she even knows that. I find myself looking forward to time spent around her. She's captivating, demanding I listen without ever having to ask as much. I enjoy watching her interact with the world. She always seems so sure of her movements and the words that spill from her lips. I want to know more, to drink in every aspect of her life, to submerge myself in it. I'm not entirely sure if that means I like her or if I'm just enthralled by the idea of who she could be.

"I don't know how to answer that question," I admit with a shrug. "She's an interesting person. I like spending time with her. I like to consider her a friend though I'm not sure she'd do the same for me."

"So you like her as a friend?"

I tuck the now dry glasses back into their spot under the bar, "Sure. I like her as a friend. What did you think of her?"

Ray has an interesting way of looking at people. He seems to be able to read other's easily, pulling out obscure observations from seconds of interaction. It's something I envy. Sure, my heart and gut tell me if a person is good or bad, but that's pretty much it. I'm not able to pick up little details just from how they talk or from their movements. Not like Ray. To Ray, people are books to be consumed, all their secrets discovered between the lines. He'll pick up on some little detail and run with that, untangling the rest of their secrets quickly.

"I think she's incredibly sad," Ray answers beginning to sweep up behind the bar. "She moves like she's certain, but her eyes are hesitant. She doesn't want to look at you, but there are times I don't think she can help it. I think she used to be incredibly full of life. She's one of those girls that could light up a room with her smile. I think Gerard might've taken that part of her with him. She also seems strong, resilient; she wants to get better. I'm not sure if she just doesn't know how, or if it makes her feel guilty."

"Think she could get it back, that light up a room thing?"

Ray shrugs, "Maybe, under the right circumstances, if she wanted to."

"It still amazes me that you can pick up things about people so quickly."

The broom hits against my feet and I hoist myself up onto the bar to get out of Ray's way, "You've got to widen your views. You hyper-focus on one thing. I see the whole picture."

"Is that a nice way of saying I'm shallow?"

Ray shakes his head, "No. I'm just saying it takes you longer to figure out people because you start small and work out. I start big and work in. Can I offer some advice?"

I shrug, knowing he's going to offer up his words of wisdom whether I want them or not. Ray has a lot of opinions. I seem to be the person he likes to share them with. I've gotten used to his ramblings and offers of how I could make my life easier.

"She's a powder keg. Tread lightly. You don't want to be the match that starts the chain reaction."

I let out a snort, "Just once, I wish you'd just speak English."

Ray shakes his head, rolling his eyes at my ignorance. Digging around in one of the boxes under the bar he produces a white and red Handle With Care sticker, "That should clear it up."


	8. ~8~

can hear banging coming from behind the door of apartment 212. Guttural yells are broken up by heart-wrenching sobs and what sounds to be something glass hitting the floor. If it were anyone else in the world, I wouldn't stop. If it was anyone else I wouldn't be letting my knuckles hit against the metal door. It isn't just anyone. It's the girl from 212. The girl who lost her husband. A girl I've been watching try to pick up the pieces for the last two months. "Elizabeth?"

"Go – " a sob cuts through her words, a sharp inhale following. "Go away!"

Sighing, I let my forehead connect with the door, "I don't think I can do that. Can you unlock the door, Elizabeth?"

"I said go away!"

"Please?"

There's a long moment of silence before I hear the lock click. There are broken remnants of plates and cups littering the hallway. The pieces of glass and ceramic crunch under my shoes as I make my way further into the apartment. Elizabeth is sat in the middle of the kitchen floor, her knees pulled up to her chest, tears streaming down her face. Her body shakes, the skin around her nails caked in dried blood. Everything from the counters has been swept onto the floor, mixed in with pictures and little slips of paper and what appear to be flower petals. Elizabeth stares up at me, her eyes dark and vacant. The only part of Elizabeth that is actually with me right now is her body; everything else has gone, shut down, walked away.

Squatting down in front of her, I reach a hand out. My fingers shake, twitching up and down as I near her knee. Keeping our eye contact, I gently place my hand over Elizabeth's. She jerks under my touch but doesn't pull away. For a while, we just look at each. Tears still drip from Elizabeth's eyes, collecting under her chin before landing in her lap. The urge to wrap her in my arms, to tell her it'll be okay, to take away the pain is overwhelming. I bite it back though, sinking my teeth into my bottom lip until it hurts, the skin threatening to split.

"What happened?"

Elizabeth lets out a shaky breath, burying her head in her knees, "Today is our anniversary."

Shit. In the back of my mind, this day wasn't going to come. It was something Elizabeth mentioned in passing, fitting it into a story about how Gerard obsessed over two different colored blue ties for his first job interview. I should've been paying more attention. I was the one who decided I was going to help her. Elizabeth never sought me out; she didn't throw herself into my life. I threw myself into hers. Rationally, it doesn't make any sense. Why should I care about an anniversary that doesn't even pertain to me? I shouldn't. But I can't help but care. I care when Elizabeth is happy. I care when she's sad. I care about her day and the color she's thinking about dying her hair, and if she needs to wear a jacket to work. I just care. Since that night I got the urge to have a cigarette after work, I've cared about the girl with sad eyes and a hauntingly beautiful smile. It's not rational. Stuff like this rarely is.

"Why don't we get you into bed and I'll clean this up, okay?" I keep my tone low and gentle. She doesn't need to be lectured or told her behavior is outlandish. She needs a soft touch and someone to give a shit. Elizabeth needs someone who sees through the forced smiles and the pathetic I'm fine. Two days after meeting her I'd promised Gerard I'd be there for her. I'm not about to break that promise.

Elizabeth's head snaps up at my words, her eyes wide, skin going snow white, "No! I can't. I can't lie in that bed another night and know he's never going to be there. I can't be in this fucking place where he lingers in the walls like fucking cigarette smoke. I can't. I can't. I –" She chokes on a sob, face once again disappearing behind her knees.

"Okay," I rub my cheeks, moving up to my eyes, trying to figure out what to do. "Will you let me pick you up?"

I get a muffled okay but nothing further.

Dropping to my knees, I slide an arm under Elizabeth's legs, attempting to wrap my other arm around her waist enough to get us both up off the kitchen floor. "I need you to wrap your arm around me, okay? I don't want you to fall."

She feels like nothing, her arms wrapped around my shoulders, face buried in my chest. There's some fumbling around as I pull her apartment door shut and kick mine open. Elizabeth lets out a whimper as I set her down on my bed, pulling the covers up around her. Her apartment needs cleaned, but right now I feel like I need to be here. Elizabeth's hand traveling across the duvet, fingers brushing against mine confirms my intuition. "Will you stay? Please?"

It's the broken plea that causes the first of my own tears to slip through the careful barrier I built while in the kitchen. Elizabeth isn't necessarily full of life on a daily basis, but I've never seen her this hurt. This completely shattered. "Yeah." I clear my throat, hoping she doesn't hear the crack. "Yeah, I'll stay."

I build a wall of pillows between us, crawling in on top of the sheet. I'm not sure what state of mind Elizabeth will wake up in and I don't want her to think I tried to take advantage of a moment of weakness. I'm sure I should take her phone and call Mikey. He's probably much better equipped at handling this than I could ever hope to be. I'm just not sure how he'd interpret the situation. I've walked into some pretty heated yelling matches between the two. Elizabeth doesn't need to be chastised right now. She needs to sleep it off and handle the rest tomorrow. She's also not asked for her husband's brother. If she asks, I'll call.

"What would he do for your anniversaries?"

Elizabeth stirs on the other side of the bed, one of the pillows from my wall disappearing. She tucks it under her, letting her cheek press into the material, "He'd usually pretend he'd forgotten, going about his day as usual. Then he'd surprise me at work or have Mikey text me that I was needed at some random address. He'd always be there with flowers, sunflowers because they're my favorite. We'd go out to dinner and walk around Central Park. One year we went ice skating but that ended in a trip to the emergency room so we cut that out of future plans." I smile as Elizabeth laughs lightly at the memory. "Then he'd take me home. Sometimes he had a painting he did as a gift. Sometimes we'd just fall in bed."

As she continues on with her story, describing the way Gerard's fingers felt against her skin, an idea formulates. I'm not quite sure how she'll receive it, but I know I'd like to try. Maybe it'll help. Maybe it'll blow up in my face. I need to get ahold of Mikey.

"Hey, 211?"

I hum back, letting her know I'm still here.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Ask anything you'd like."

There's a long pause, her voice cutting through the darkness starling me. I was beginning to think she'd fallen asleep, "What's your name?"

"Frank."

There's a weight on my shoulder and I realize Elizabeth has laid her head there, "It's nice to meet you, Frank."

I risk curling an arm around her, "It's nice to meet you too, Missus Way. Now sleep. It'll all look better in the morning."

~

"Just for the record, I think this is a very bad idea," Mikey tells me for the hundredth time today.

I mustered up the courage to steal Mikey's number from Elizabeth's phone just as the sun was peaking through the bedroom curtains. Most of last night was spent staring at the ceiling, listening to Elizabeth's gentle snoring, and crying for her pain. I'd left her peacefully curled around a pillow, slipping into the bathroom to make the call. He was less than impressed to hear my voice and even less thrilled with my idea. Despite the unenthusiastic response, he did agree to play along. Ultimately, he thinks it's a good idea for Elizabeth to get out of the house even though he does wish it were with anyone but me. Apparently I still look at her wrong.

"I know," I snip back, continuing to look at the array of flowers. "What kind of flowers did your brother like?"

"Orchids. She won't want those," Mikey plucks a few more sunflowers from the bucket of water. "Her favorites are these. Six. For six years of marriage. He always got the number of years. She also likes Kahlua and Carmel M&Ms, though she'll never admit it."

"Should I get those too?"

Mikey narrows his eyes as I pay for the bouquet of flowers, "Are you trying to cheer her up or date her?"

"I'm trying to be a good friend," I answer back, growing tired of having my intentions questioned.

Gerard's brother hails a cab, stepping fearlessly off the curb, right into the path of the yellow car, "You keep saying that. I'm not so sure I trust you though. I know what men think of Elizabeth. She's beautiful in a very dangerous way. Her personality is intoxicating. She can pull you in with a single word. I know because I saw it happen with my brother. I'm quite sure he was in love after that night in the bathtub." Mikey closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the seat. "I wouldn't blame you, but I would hate you. I promised him I'd keep her safe, guard her heart; help her through all of this. She's not ready for something new. She's still hurt, that deep kind of hurt that settles into your bones and makes you feel kind of nauseous all the time."

"I know. I'm just trying to be a friend. I think she needs that."

I guess I can't be too upset with Mikey. Here I am buying flowers and planning a date for his dead brother's wife. In his position I'd be wary too. I just wish he'd take my word for things. Sure, maybe Elizabeth is dangerously attractive and maybe I do look at her in a way I shouldn't. I'm not about to act on any of that though. I'm not an idiot. All I want to do is make her smile, to help her feel a little bit of normalcy.

Mikey glances over at me, chewing on his lip for a while before slowly nodding, "Yes. I supposed a friend wouldn't hurt. I'll snap your dick off if you try anything, Iero."

"I have no doubt that that is a very real threat," I snicker, wondering if Gerard had a similar fiery streak. "I can assure you your hands will not need to go anywhere near my dick, though."

We spill out of the taxi, standing outside the door to the apartment building. That nervous, first date, feeling has settled in my stomach. My palms are sweaty, skin burning despite the chilly December wind. I know it's not really a date, it's the furthest thing from a date, but I still feel jittery. I want everything to be perfect. For a night I want Elizabeth to be able to fall into her memories. She deserves that. If I never talk to her again, if she disappears off the face of the earth tomorrow I at least want to give her tonight.

"What time do you want me to text her?" Mikey's voice pulls me from my thoughts.

"Around six. The reservation is for eight."

Mikey gives me a curt nod, beginning to walk away. He stops a few paces from the gate that divides the apartment block from the rest of the street, "Hey, Iero? Take her ice-skating. Gerard was shit at it, but Elizabeth loves it."


	9. ~9~

The ding of my phone startles me, body lurching away from the deep maroon sheets. I’ve fallen into the habit of staring at the wood-beamed ceiling, listening to the snow tap against the window screens. It’s incredibly comforting. I let my mind wander, deciding what twisted path we’ll travel down for the day. There’s still a hint of cologne clinging to the fabric. If I press my face into his pillow I can still smell the deep cedar of his shampoo, I can almost feel the warmth he left behind.

Groaning, I roll off to the side, snatching my phone off the bedside table. _Your presence is requested at 132 W 47th St. tonight at eight o’clock sharp. Wear something nice._

 _Not funny, Mikey_. I shoot back.

His response comes in quickly, the bubbles appearing only seconds after my text is sent. Whatever game he’s playing I’m in no mood for. I’m quite content to let these sheets smother me, wrapping me in their blissfully painful memories. _Not trying to be funny. You’re going. Wear that red velvet dress. Gerard loved that one._

Yeah, but Gerard is dead now. He’ll never get to see me in that red dress ever again. I’ll never feel the soft pads of his fingertips slowly slide the thin straps from my shoulders. I’ll never feel his tongue glide up the skin of my neck as he undoes the zipper. That dress belongs hung in the back of the closet, never to be worn again, left to the memories that cling to it. I don’t want others to see me in it. I don’t want them to look at me the way he did when I wore it. I don’t want another person’s gaze to replace the mischievous twinkle in Gerard’s eyes or the way he would suck in a small gasp or the way his teeth would tug at his bottom lip.

Two hours later, I stand in front of the full-length mirror propped in the corner of the bedroom. After a bit more encouragement from Mikey and some threats of coming over and putting me in it himself, I’d worn the red dress. I tug on Gerard’s leather jacket over the top of it, replacing the usual heels with a pair of black combat boots. Letting out a sigh, I pile my hair onto the top of my head, keeping it there with a few bobby pins. The person staring back at me in the mirror is not who I am. I don’t get dressed up. I don’t go out anymore. I live in pajama shorts and Gerard’s ratty, oversized t-shirts. The person staring back at me is my old life, the life I lived with Gerard.

As the taxi pulls up in front of a brightly lit, limestone building my stomach flips nervously. I’m not even certain who I’m meant to meet here. It’s probably Mikey and Kristin, trying to do something sweet for me to give me some kind of normalcy. That option makes the most sense. They’re following Gerard’s usual elusive pattern for our anniversaries. It is a day late though. Gerard would have never been a day late. He used to tell me our anniversary was his favorite day of the year, better than Christmas or even his own birthday. We got married on the same day we met, the same day we got engaged. Gerard used to say his life never really started until the day he met me.

“Hello, pretty girl.” He’s lounging against the building, one foot planted firmly on the sidewalk, the other connected with the building behind him. A half-smoked cigarette hangs from his devilish smirk. There’s a bouquet of sunflowers hanging down by his side, wrapped in sparkling cellophane and rich red tissue paper.

I raise an eyebrow at his greeting, accepting the flowers he offers.

Frank was the last person I was expecting to be waiting out front for me, “Hello man.”

Frank scoffs, holding a hand over his heart as if my words slid a dagger in between his ribs, digging into the fleshy organ beneath, “Hello man? I called you a pretty girl and all I get in return is man?”

“Well, what would you like me to say?” Frank’s smirk deepens.

I appreciate the way he keeps his eyes trained on mine, not sinking down to rake over my body, “At least call me a pretty girl back.”

“Fine,” I snatch the cigarette from between his fingers, taking the last few drags left in it before crushing it under my heel. “Hello back, pretty girl.”

Frank brings his hands up to cup his cheeks, doing a little spin, “I get it now, why girls like being called pretty. It makes my heart all fluttery.”

“You’re a lush,” I laugh, tapping him in the leg as he holds the restaurant door open. “Gerard always commented on the things I was good at. He said calling someone pretty was played out. He’d wake me up and tell me how smart and capable I was. He sometimes called me his muse.”

Frank pulls my chair out for me before taking his own, “What’d you call him.”

“Lover,” I notice the dusting of pink that rises to Frank’s cheeks, settling over the tops of his ears. I can’t help but smile, “It made him blush.”

Gerard didn’t like sushi. He said it was slimy and made him smell like fish even after a few showers. Regardless, he knew it was one of my favorites. He’d suck it up, have some soup and laugh as I ate. It was times like that that I knew I was loved. Most people won’t put aside their dislike of something for others. Gerard always did. As long as I was there by his side he’d try anything I wanted at least once. We were good at sharing our hobbies and things we enjoyed. Whether we enjoyed what we were doing or not, we got to spend time with the other person and that’s what meant to most. Nothing else really mattered when our fingers interlocked.

Frank, on the other hand, seems thoroughly impressed with the avocado rolls he ordered. In his usual fashion, he’s convivial and boisterous, laughing loudly, his chopsticks dancing through the air as he talks. I find my head resting on my fingertips, giggling as he tells a rather humorous story about the first time his band tried to play a show outside of the city. Apparently even their van, leaking oil down the highway, knew they shouldn’t have been venturing so far from home turf after only being together a few weeks. I let myself enjoy how his eyes sparkle in the light, the greens swirling together with blues and rich browns. I let myself become enchanted with the lines that form around his mouth when he smiles or laughs. I let myself watch as colorful fingers dance through the dim lighting, creating magical shapes. For a little, I let my heart feel light and airy. I let it beat too fast. I let breathy laughs fall from my lips like water from a tap. I let my cheeks burn with blush, protesting any further smiling. I let myself feel like this is normal.

“You are a trip, 211,” I bump my shoulder against his as he leads us through Central Park.

Frank nudges me with his elbow, grinning, “We going back to calling each other our apartment numbers?”

“Are you complaining?”

“Not particularly,” He lets out a snort of laughter, seeing some kind of joke in his own words that I’ve failed to pick up. “I kinda like it when you call me, 211.”

I scowl over at him as we stop in front of the ice skating rink set up in the middle of the park. It’s the same rink where Gerard fell and broke his wrist. We ended up finishing our date night sat in the ER, Gerard waiting to get x-rayed and fitted with a cast. He’d apologized profusely, his whole face going a beet red, uninjured hand coming up to hide his embarrassment. Through laughter, I’d convinced him it was all right and that the trip to the hospital making the night all the more memorable. “I’m not quite sure I’m drunk enough for you to talk like that, 211.”

Frank holds his hands up in surrender, “My sincerest apologies, Missus Way, that was completely out of line.”

“Indeed,” I watch a few couples circle around the rink, their fingers intertwined, heads resting lazily on each other’s shoulders. “Care to tell me why we’re at the ice skating rink?”

I get a shrug, Frank taking two pairs of skates from the girl behind the counter before leading me over to a bench, “Mikey told me you liked skating. I thought it might be nice. We don’t have to if you don’t want, though I wish you told me before I got the skates.”

“Oh,” I chuckle; already figuring Mikey played an integral role in setting this whole thing up. I’ve not actually told Frank all that much about me. The stuff he does know involves Gerard. Tonight’s been going off too smoothly to not be influenced by Mikey. “So all of this was Mikey’s idea?”

Frank tugs his shoes off, beginning to lace up his skates, “Not exactly. I decided to do the whole dinner thing. Mikey just helped me with some of the details. You know you don’t talk about yourself all that much.”

“Neither do you,” I answer quietly, sliding my foot into the scuffed up ice skate. Gerard did offer to try skating again, knowing how much I enjoy it. After listening to him grumble for a month about not being able to do anything but sit around, I shot the idea down. One broken bone was enough. “Besides, I’m not all that interesting.”

It’s Frank’s turn to scowl, “I’m certain that isn’t true. Come on, I’m sure you’ll enjoy watching me make a fool of myself.”

Frank clings to the wall, his back to me as he sidesteps across the ice. His knees are bent out at an awkward angle, ankles looking dangerously close to breaking. Instead of pressing the whole blade against the ice, Frank keeps the toe picks dug in deep, tiptoeing clumsily. I try to swallow down laughs, knowing he’s doing this to try and be nice. It is quite humorous. Even Gerard gave it more of a go than Frank is. When the laughter finally bubbles over, Frank shoots me a scowl over his shoulder.

“Do you even have the slightest idea what you’re doing?” I question once I’ve regained my composure.

His shoulders slump, the messy movements stopping completely, “No.”

“Give me your hands,” I hold mine out to him, waiting patiently for him to pry himself off the wall. F

rank shakes his head, knuckles turning white under the pressure of his grip, “There is no way in hell I’m letting go of this wall.”

“Come on, 211,” Gently, I slide my fingers beneath his palms, holding the cold, calloused flesh. “Trust me?”

Cloudy eyes meet mine, the corners of lips tugging up into a lopsided smile. Frank lets out a defeated sigh, readjusting our hands so that his fingers curl around my wrists, disappearing underneath the leather jacket sleeves. As I slowly begin to move backward, his grip tightens, legs wobbling. Wiggling my arm, I’m able to break his death grip, forcing his chin up, brushing a few strands of inky black hair out of his face. His nose crinkles up, a quick flick of his neck sending the tendrils of hair back over his eye.

“Give me your hand back. I don’t want to fall.”

“I’m not going to let you fall. Relax. Pick a foot to push off of and then just straighten that leg a little.” I stop my movements as he drops the blades of the skates fully to the ice. Once he seems to get the hang of just standing, I give his hand a gentle squeeze. “Ready?”

We make clumsy circles around the rink, Frank doing more walking than actually skating. At one point I tell him to just leave his feet straight, dragging him along. He keeps his eyebrows scrunched together, bottom lip fit tightly between his teeth. He’s thinking about this way too much.

“Tell me about yourself, Frank,” I demand as we make our third trip around the ice.

He’s slowly getting the hang of where to place his feet and how much pressure to apply when he pushes off. He continues to cling to me, nails digging into my wrists if he thinks he’s going to fall. “What do you want to know?”

“Start at the beginning.”

“Well, I was born in Belleville, New Jersey,” I slip one wrist from his grasp and he falls out beside me. “My mom and dad got divorced when I was young. I spent weekends with my dad and grandfather. They were both drummers. I went to Catholic school. Well, I’m not sure if you could really call it that. I spent more time in detention than I did in actual class. Mom and Dad wanted me to go to college. I would’ve been the first one out of my family. I went for a semester. It wasn’t really my thing.”

Wanting to keep him distracted, I fish another question out of the back of my head, “When did you meet Ray?”

“In high school. We were both the weird band kids. The friendship kind of happened naturally. I’ve been stuck with him ever since. He’s a good guy, though. I think he keeps me grounded. I’m a bit of a daydreamer.”

“Hey, Frank?” He hasn’t realized I’ve taken back my other hand and that he’s now following me around the rink completely by himself. “You’re ice skating.”

He chuckles, looking down at his feet, “I guess I am.”


	10. ~10~

We skate for a while longer, Frank seeming to enjoy it more now that he’s not petrified of his butt meeting the solid ice below. Once our legs have grown tired and our fingers go blue, Frank suggests we head home. He talks of presents wrapped in colorful paper and the need to piss like a racehorse. Despite myself, I laugh at his jokes, letting myself be hypnotized by the way the lights strung between the trees in the park bounce off his oil-slick eyes. I enjoy the way he talks with his whole body, arms flying around, shoulders jumping. I enjoy the way his whole face lights up as he rambles on about the band and Ray and his parents. My stomach twists into obnoxious knots as I realize I might enjoy spending time with Frank. 

I watch in mute horror as Frank goes to sit in Gerard’s spot on the couch. Everything in here is ours. The only other people I’ve had in the apartment since Gerard died are Mikey and Kristin. They don’t threaten to wipe away his smell or the dip in the cushion. “Don’t sit there!” 

Frank jumps away from the couch, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. He backs away from the couch, glancing over at the chair hanging from the ceiling. Gerard used to sit there, swinging gently back and forth as we watched movies or he sketched. 

“Or there.” 

His fingers brush against the ledge by the window and I shake my head, suddenly feeling terribly rude. Maybe inviting him inside wasn’t such a good idea. We should’ve done presents at his place. At least there he’d be able to sit on the furniture without my panic. I don’t like having people in here. This is my space to fall back into Gerard. Other people just threaten to replace those memories. 

“Here,” Frank sighs, moving back into the middle of the living room. His eyes sweep over the space, lingering on a piece of art above the couch. “Why don’t we have you think and figure out where I can sit?” 

Nodding, my eyes begin to sweep over the room. Not the hanging chair, Gerard’s favorite place to sketch. Not the couch, a place we spent so many nights cuddled up next to each other, the spot Gerard used to sit and smoke while I unpacked the take out. Not the window ledges, where I sat silently, staring down onto the courtyard below as Gerard drew picture after picture of me. My eyes connect with the small dining table pushed under the cut out between the kitchen and the living room. We bought the thing about two years into living here. Despite its rather permanent location, Gerard was always bumping into the thing. He never quite got used to the extra, fairly unused piece of furniture. 

My lips tug up, a laugh slipping up from my throat, “Can you sit on the dining table?” 

“On the table?” Frank arches an eyebrow, his face masked with a smirk. 

“Yeah, right in the middle.” 

Frank hops up onto the table, pushing the presents there out of the way before pulling his legs up into a pretzel, “Does this one have a story too?” 

“Doesn’t it always have a story, Frank?” 

Instead of pressing further, he hands me the first gift. The wrapping paper is littered with brightly colored balloons, a sticker indicating it’s from Mikey. I’ve never gotten anniversary presents from anyone but Gerard. This year I’ve got three different presents. One from Mikey, one from Kristin, and a larger one, propped up against the wall. I’m not certain who that one is from. Sliding my fingers under the tape holding the paper together, I watch as it falls away. It’s a coffee mug, scripted with the date Gerard and I got married underneath a quote Gerard used to send me to bed with every night; In this world and the next, I will always love you. I smile down at the gift, fingers tracing over the words I’ll never hear spoken aloud again. 

After I’ve set the mug on the rack with the rest, Frank hands me the next gift. This one is from Kristin and makes me slightly nervous. Kristin isn’t the best with heartfelt gifts. She likes to opt for things that make her laugh. Since Gerard’s death, she’s insisted I need to relearn to laugh. I can already tell what it is with the first rip. My fingers stall in their work, not really wanting to open this in front of Frank. I’m sure he’ll think it’s hilarious, but I’m less than impressed. The writing on the box talks of different speeds for maximum pleasure. Of course, this is what she got me. Letting out a little huff of laughter, I set the gift aside. This of course only piques Frank’s interest. 

“What’d she get you?” 

I reach for the bigger gift, “It’s something stupid. I’m going to open this one.” 

“I want to know what she got you,” Frank whines back, shifting around a little on the table so he can rest his back against the wall. He stares at me, fluttering his eyelashes, bottom lip pushed out. “What happened to sharing things regardless of the consequences?” 

I give him a light tap on the shoulder, scowling, “Somethings are allowed to be private.” 

“Did she get you a sex toy,” Frank’s eyes light up, a giggle falling from his lips when I don’t respond. “She totally got you a sex toy.” 

“I’ll send you home,” I warn.

“No,” Frank shakes his head quickly, hair hitting against his cheeks. “I wanna see what Gerard got you.” 

I drop to the floor in front of the larger present, “Gerard didn’t get me anything, Frank.” 

“The one you’re about to open is from him. Mikey said he kept it as his house so you wouldn’t see it. He thinks it’s a painting or some kind of print.” 

Eight months. Gerard has been dead for eight months. There’s no way this is actually from him. Gerard loved our anniversary, but he wasn’t really one to plan that much ahead. It wasn’t like he knew he was going to die. He wouldn’t have started something so far before the day. As I begin to tear the paper away, revealing the corner of a canvas I refuse to get my hopes up. I’m sure this is just a picture Mikey got printed against a canvas and slapped Gerard’s name on to make me feel a little better. The image sitting before me renders me speechless. 

It was almost two years ago. Gerard needed a model for something he was working on. He shut off all the lights in the bedroom, littering the floor with little candles. The flickering flames cast long shadows over the room, the deep red of the sheets standing out in the dim lighting. He scattered white rose petals across the bed, having me lie in the middle of the sheets. He snapped pictures from every angle. Sometime during the session, I ended up naked, my back arched off the bed, hair falling in my face. 

The canvas bears that image in hazy oil paint. His name is scribbled at the bottom, tucked away in a shadow of the sheets. My fingers brush over the textured petals, tracing over the curves of my body. I always wondered what became of those photos, never actually seeing the art he planned on making from them. I guess this is it. All that time he had a plan. In this painting I see myself as he saw me, raw and messy and gorgeous, shadows dancing against the pale skin of my painted form. There’s a note taped to the canvas, simple and short, very Gerard. 'To my muse, now you can see just how heart-wrenchingly beautiful you are. Happy anniversary - Gee.'

The sound of crumpling paper startles me, my butt making contact with the floor as I jump. Frank stares down at me, the ghost of a frown on his face. It looks unnatural, completely out of place on the usual smiling man. “Uh, I got you something too. It’s gonna seem real lame after that masterpiece, but here.” 

A bag with a dog on it is shoved in my direction. I dig out its contents, Kahlua and caramel M&Ms. Fucking Mikey. I grin up at Frank, “Thank you.” 

“Do you want help hanging that up?” Frank questions after a moment of silence. His eyes stare through the painting as if he’s not sure he’s allowed to look at something so intimate. Mikey complains that he doesn’t like the way Frank looks at me, but I don’t see it. Frank never looks at me, not really anyway. He looks through me, around me, but he never really lets his eyes linger on me. Perhaps it’s because he knows I’m off-limits, perhaps it’s because he’s worried what he’d see if he took even a second to really let his gaze settle. 

“No,” I crawl onto the table beside Frank, letting my head rest against his shoulder, “Not tonight. Tonight, you should tell me more about yourself.”


	11. ~11~

As I ramble on about nothing, I take the time to truly devour Elizabeth’s apartment. It’s like being in one of those old Gothic churches grandma used to enjoy visiting. Rich blood reds offset by jet-blacks and water damaged golds. The old and the new mix seamlessly; creating a style that is uniquely Elizabeth and Gerard. The couch is blood-red velvet, dwarfing the clear plastic chair hanging from the rafters. There are soft fabrics and hard metals and intricate details all intertwined to create a masterpiece of a living room. Their whole lives were art, surrounding them, consuming them. Shoved in the corner, tucked under a window shielded by deep black curtains is a piano. 

“Do you play?” 

Elizabeth glances at the instrument, “Gerard did.” 

“That isn’t the question I asked.”

I’ll sit and listen to stories about Gerard for the rest of my life. Tonight, I don’t want that though. I want to know Elizabeth. I want to hear stories about her, memories she made alone. I want to consume every word of her history and just drown in it. Gerard may have been a big part of her, but I know he wasn’t everything. I want to know those pieces, the distinctly Elizabeth pieces. 

Elizabeth slides off the table, wrought iron details with a glass top, staring me down as she settles behind the piano. Her fingers dust over the keys, pulling out the melody to a Misfits’ song. I’m enchanted by the way her shoulders rise and fall, her whole body dancing along as she plays. She mirrors my smirk as she plays out the last notes. Her elbows rest against the keys, sending an awful dance of notes echoing through the apartment. 

“Does that answer the question you asked?” 

“Yes,” I grin, having expected nothing less from the unconventional girl before me. “I supposed it does. Where’d you learn to play all these instruments?” 

Elizabeth drapes herself over the piano bench, forearm thrown lazily across her forehead, “My dad. He was a music teacher and played in a metal band. Instead of doing math homework like a normal kid, I learned guitar and piano and drums and a plethora of other instruments that wouldn’t help me pass my classes.” 

“What’d your mom think of all that?” 

“Wouldn’t know. She left when I was little. It was just my dad and me for as long as I can remember. He was unconventional, but I like to think I had a better grasp of what life was really like than your average kid. We used to set subjects I wasn’t as good at to music. Somehow that helped me learn them better. I was the kid in the back of class mumbling lyrics about Sin and Cosine and the anatomy of a cell.” 

I smile, “He sounds like a cool guy.” 

“I think you two would’ve gotten along.” 

“Would have?” I ask lightly, her use of past tense drawing up a question I’m too frightened to ask. 

Elizabeth gets up, resituating herself on the couch I’m not allowed to touch, “He’s not dead. He’s got dementia. Can’t remember to feed himself, let alone keep track of new faces or old ones for that matter. He lives upstate with my aunt. I get up there every few months. He never remembers me, ever. I’ll admit my visits have been sparse as of late.” 

“Did he like Gerard?” 

I get a half-assed shrug, Elizabeth lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke toward the open window, “Enough to give him his blessing. Dad started to forget things pretty soon after Gerard and I started formally dating. I think Gerard asked way before he actually intended just so that he knew dad was actually there enough to know what he was asking. Donald, Gerard’s dad, walked me down the aisle. My dad was too far gone by then. The whole wedding he just kept asking who everyone was and why he was there.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Elizabeth blows another plume of smoke through her cherry red lips, “No need. People get old; their memory starts to go. He was there. That’s what counted.” 

I can see in the way her lips tug into a frown and her eyes go cloudy that it means a lot more to Elizabeth than she’s willing to show. A part of me wants to share just how much I relate to her pain, how much I understand the empty feeling she’s probably got in her chest. The words press at my lips, begging to be let out. Dragging my teeth over my tongue, I swallow them down. That’s a story for another day when Elizabeth has healed more. It was a long time ago. The ache is dull now, mostly not there, pulled up late at night when the whole world is silent and I’m left to my thoughts. Elizabeth has enough to deal with. She doesn’t need to muddle through my past. I’m not sure I’m quite ready to answer all the questions I know will follow. I don’t want her eyes to be a mask of sympathy. 

“Hey 211,” Elizabeth breaks the silence settling over us, “did you mean it?”

“Did I mean what?” 

Elizabeth looks away, staring at her reflection in the darkened glass of the window, “When you called me a pretty girl. Did you mean it or were you just being nice?” 

My fingers find their way to the tattoo on my neck, working against the already agitated skin. If I’m not careful, I’m sure I’ll rip a hole in the flesh, “What answer would you like?” 

“The truth.” 

Mikey’s going to have my dick, “I mean it. You are stunningly pretty, Elizabeth.” She hums back a response, fingers working against a spot on the couch cushion. “You’re also strong and resilient and incredibly brave and funny in a cynical, twisted way. Being around you it’s – it’s like playing guitar.”

“It’s late,” Elizabeth announces. “You should probably go.” 

I can hear the sounds of the piano float across the hall for most of the night.


	12. ~12~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters today because I just love you guys so much. Hope everyone is enjoying so far :)

“What did you say to her?” Mikey inquires over coffee the next morning. Part of him agreeing to help me with my idea was agreeing to meet up for breakfast and talk about what happened. “And don’t tell me nothing because she never refuses to take my calls.” 

This is not a conversation I want to be having. I already beat myself up about all the things I said last night. It was a mistake. I should’ve lied. Spouting all those compliments, while all true, was too much. It wasn’t my place to be saying those things to another man’s wife. Even if that man is dead, I need to learn boundaries. I just couldn’t help myself. She was just sitting there, bathing in the dim lighting, looking so tragic and miserable. All I wanted was to see her eyes light up, see her lips cock up into a half-smile. Based on Mikey’s assessment of the situation it’ll be a miracle if she’s even willing to step into the hallway at the same time as me ever again. 

“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.” That seems safe enough. I’m not exactly ecstatic about the idea of sharing exactly what was said with Gerard’s brother. He’s likely to skin me alive right here in the diner. 

Mikey frowns at me over the top of his chipped coffee mug, “Okay. So what truths did you spill last night, Iero?” 

“At the restaurant, I called her a pretty girl because she is. I mean you’d have to be blind not to see that. Later in the evening, she asked if I meant it. She wanted the truth so I said yes. I may have added a few other things I admire about her.” 

Gerard’s brother huffs, “You must really hate your dick. You do remember our little deal about snapping it off, right? At what point in the night did you decide complimenting my dead brother’s wife was a good idea? I thought you were just trying to be a good friend.” 

“Friends give each other compliments.” 

This gets me a flamboyant eye-roll accompanied by a less than friendly scowl, “Oh, don’t give me that. You probably looked at her with your stupid dopey eyes and swooned your word vomit all over her. Did you try and kiss her goodnight too?” 

“Jesus,” I grumble back, forcing a smile to the waitress as she refills my cup, “I was sat on the dining table. I wasn’t anywhere near her. I left when she said I should. I didn’t even hug her. She was the one who touched me.” 

“What?” 

I shrug, fumbling over my words. There’s something about Mikey that makes me feel like I’m refusing to admit I’ve committed capital murder, “I took her ice skating. I had no fucking clue what I was doing. She kind of took my hands and led me around.” 

“What else did you say to her?” 

I’ve already dug myself into a hole, might as well start throwing the dirt back over myself, “I told her she was strong and funny and that being around her was like playing guitar.” 

Mikey snorts, thumping his chest as he tries to swallow his mouthful of coffee, “You compared being around Elizabeth to playing guitar? You really have no game, do you?”

“I’m not supposed to have game. Game has no part of spending time with Elizabeth,” I snicker. “Wait, why is telling a girl she’s like playing guitar a bad thing?” 

The man across for me shakes his head, “No wonder you’re single.” 

“I’m single cause I work all night and sleep all day.” 

“Yet here you are,” Mikey gestures around to the diner laid out around us. 

I stare down into the deep brown of my coffee, my reflection blinking pathetically back at me, “Is she ever going to talk to me again?” 

“Hell if I know,” Mikey shrugs. “Elizabeth is fickle. The only person who truly understood her is now buried six feet deep. My advice; let her come to you. She hates pining. Don’t drop off alcohol. Don’t leave little notes. Act like nothing happened and wait.” 

“I thought you wanted my dick. Why are you helping me?” 

Mikey gives me a pointed look, sipping his coffee, “Despite wanting your head on a platter, I think you might be good for Elizabeth. That first night you had dinner together she couldn’t shut up about how much she enjoyed the company. I think you help her feel normal, like just another girl, not a woman who lost her husband.” His eyes narrow, “If I ever find out you told her I told you that, it’ll be a lot worse than your dick.” 

“Got it,” I give him a salute. “Anything else I should know?” 

Mikey slaps a few bills on the table, sliding out of the booth, “I think I’ve helped you enough for one day. Tread lightly, Iero. Elizabeth might enjoy your company, but I still don’t trust you.” 

~

The weeks pass by slowly, Christmas melting into New Years, fading into just another Monday. Ray supplies me with a constant line of shit, reminding me just how terribly I’ve messed up. Even my family, usually excited to see me, seemed to nitpick. I don’t do this right, or I do too much of this thing. I could handle the flood of shit on Frank if I didn’t also have to face Elizabeth’s cold shoulder. But I do. She won’t even look at me on the off chance we pass in the stairwell. My nightly calls go immediately to voicemail; the whiny ass voice of a robot telling me the mailbox is full. 

It’s the second week of February. Elizabeth and I haven’t talked in almost two months. I keep waiting for her to even say hello, to answer the phone. It doesn’t happen, my heart tumbling to my stomach as my hope gets shot down. I’m beginning to believe we’ll never talk again. 

Friday’s are the band’s night to play at the bar. Apparently we’ve started to draw enough people to receive a permanent spot. A clap cuts through the silence left by the last song of the night. Her voice, melodic and gentle, caresses my ears. Her words hang in the space between us. 

“You know, this guy once compared being around me to playing one of those,” Elizabeth nods to the guitar still strapped around my chest. She stands with her weight all on one hip, arms crossed over her chest. Her head rests lazily against one of the brick beams running up through the room. Chestnut brown tendrils of hair fall over her face, creating long shadows over her features. The way she’s staring me down from under her eyelashes is making my stomach do dangerous things. 

My fingers come out to play, working rapidly against the skin of my neck, “He sounds like an idiot.” 

“Really now? I thought it was quite insightful. After much consideration, I realized he was right. I’m not easy like breathing. You have to work at me, practice every day. And then, maybe, you eventually get some stuff down and that’s easy, it comes naturally. Other things you still have to actively work to figure out and muddle through. I think that’s quite accurate.” 

My jaw is slack, eyes blinking back at Elizabeth. She got my metaphor. No one ever gets my metaphors Hell, I don’t get my metaphors most of the time, “Yeah, I’m sure that’s exactly what he meant.” 

Elizabeth gives me the tiniest of smiles, the edge of her lips sitting a little higher, teeth barely grazing her delicate bottom lip, “Hey, 211,” She extends her hand out to me, wiggling her fingers. The way her eyebrows tug down and her eyes get doughy in a puppy-dog face make my heart melt, “Friends?” 

“You didn’t talk to me for two months, Elizabeth,” I start, trying to sound stern. 

Elizabeth pouts, shoving her bottom lip out, blinking gently, “Which I’m incredibly sorry for. And, to make it up to you, I’d like to make you dinner tonight. At my place.”

I eye her suspiciously, not quite ready to drop my façade of bullshit hurt. 

“You can sit on whatever piece of furniture you’d like,” she pleads, giving me a hopeful smile. “I was going to make black bean tacos.” 

I roll my eyes, hemming and hawing as if there’s really any real decision-making being done here, “I’d never pass up tacos.” 

“Yeah, if you did you’d really be an idiot,” Elizabeth jokes, sticking her tongue out at me. 

Shaking my head, I run my shoulder into hers, “If you ever stop talking to me for two months again, it’ll take a lot more than tacos to make up for it, ya asshole.” 

“You know, I can also bake.” 

And goddammit the wink she gives me sends my stomach into another nosedive of dangerous feelings.


	13. ~13~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone enjoys this chapter. I've created a Spotify playlist for the story if you'd like to check it out. I'll be updating it every so often. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/15CrfZoUdHnZe9N30Vr7AU?si=TiHWqVbbRCKEoLAzC0tKTw

"Elizabeth,” Frank says, throwing his legs over the edge of the tub, back resting against the tiled wall, “Why are we eating dinner in the bathtub?” 

“Gerard and I had our first date in a bathtub. It was at a party. We were both really drunk and couldn’t really get ourselves home. We ended up in the bathroom. We decided to sleep in the tub. He had me curled on top of him and he just kinda said, nothing like the first date to sleep together. The rest is history. Sometimes I feel closer to him in here.” 

Frank seems to accept this answer, giving me a dopey smile before lifting one of the tacos to his mouth. I watch the way his jaw jumps as he chews, the way the muscles in his neck ripple as he swallows. Frank makes it seem so graceful. I can’t eat though. My stomach twists up in knots, the liquid inside bubbling into a hot fury. My skin is too warm, the clothes tugging uncomfortably. I can feel the dirt under my nails and I itch to pick at it. 

“So, what’d you do for those two months of radio silence?” 

His name flashes before my eyes, bright and threatening. He called and I picked up. I hadn’t meant to. He almost ruined everything. But I couldn’t help myself. He’s familiar. He knew Gerard in ways I knew him, in the most intimate ways. We fell into a dangerous conversation. I drank him in like the alcohol Frank used to leave outside my door. For a month I was blissfully drunk, getting my high through skin against skin. And then, I felt dirty. My husband hasn’t been dead a year and I went right back to the man who almost killed us, like a pathetic puppy with my tail hidden between my legs and big sad eyes. 

And Mikey knows. Mikey knows because in a moment of real drunk, idiotic weakness I came crying to him. He wasn’t even angry. I wish he had been angry, more than angry. I wish he hated me. I wish he threw me out onto the street and told me to never talk to him again. That would’ve been better. But that’s not who Mikey is. He was so tender and gentle and held me while the whole fucking world came down around me. And then Mikey told me to make up with Frank. I guess because in the grand scheme of things Frank is non-threatening. Frank doesn’t look at me with hungry eyes. Frank doesn’t reel me in with sweet nothings and dirty lies. Frank is the guy across the hall. Frank cleans up my messes and gives me a warm bed to sleep in when mine is too scary to crawl into. Frank is safe. My past, Gerard’s past, our past, isn’t. 

I choke back the bile rising in my throat, fighting off my urge to turn on the shower and scrub my skin raw, “Just slept really, did some thinking. What about you?”

“I took up boxing. Mentally. Nothing better than beating the shit out of yourself every day for two months. It was great. I had a grand time. Less bruises and more sleepless nights,” Frank responds bitterly, eyes trained at the bathroom wall, body pulling further away from me and into the corner of the tub. 

Once again the bile rises and this time I’m unable to swallow it down. The contents of my stomach empty into the still toilet water, “If you’re just going to hate me you can leave. I already hate me enough for the both of us.” 

“Jesus, Elizabeth,” Frank snorts out, calloused fingers sweeping my hair away from my face and neck, working little circles into the flushed flesh. “I don’t hate you. I hate myself. Those things I said, they weren’t appropriate. I took it too far.” 

Flushing the toilet, I slump back against the wall, sucking in shaky breaths, “I don’t like knowing that people see me like that. He saw me like that and it was raw and beautiful. Other people seeing me like that feels dirty like I shouldn’t be putting myself on display.” 

“You aren’t a doll. You aren’t putting yourself on display. Anyone who spends any time around you; rides the subway with you, can see those things. It’s not a persona you’re putting on, it’s just who you are, Elizabeth. You can’t hate yourself for that.” 

I shake my head, hiding my face in my hands; “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Please?” 

“Alright,” his voice is strained like he’s only letting it go because he’s worried I’ll slam the door in his face and we’ll have another period of radio silence. “What would you like to do instead?” 

“I’d like you to pick me up and carry me across the hall and put me in your bed because I’ve slept on the couch or the floor or in the bathtub for the last two months and I can’t get in my own bed and – ”

My words are cut off as Frank slides his arm under my legs. I curl around him, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders as the floor disappears. My shoulder makes contact with the doorframe as Frank attempts to open his apartment door without dropping me. He gently deposits me in his bed, setting my shoes aside before wrapping the blankets around me. 

“How is it you always end up in my bed?” Frank smirks, arms crossed over his chest. 

And I really don’t want to flirt back because it’ll only add another layer of grime to my already tainted skin, but I can’t help it. I’m a flirt. It’s in my nature, “I only end up where you want me.” 

Frank’s teeth sink into his bottom lip, cheeks dusting a rosy pink as his fingers work against the tattoo on his neck, “I’m not sure I’m drunk enough for this kind of conversation, Missus Way.” 

“And whose fault is that?” 

“Mikey’s. He told me not to pine.” 

Rolling over, I push myself to the edge of the bed, fingers hanging in the space between Frank and me, twitching gently, aching for something I can’t even decipher, “Alcohol isn’t pining, Frank. Your goodnight, Missus Way, sleep well Missus Way voicemails, now that’s pining.”

“I didn’t think you were listening.” 

I stare up at him, too shy to look into his oil-slick eyes, shining brightly in the lights of the bedroom. Instead, I settle my gaze on the little hole poked just underneath his bottom lip, “I didn’t think I was either.” 

“I’ll be on the couch if you need me.”

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch.” I do feel kind of bad taking Frank’s bed from him. I’m the guest. If anyone should be out on the couch it’s me. 

“I do,” Frank gestures to the jeans and shirt he’s wearing, “I can’t sleep with all this one.” 

“Christ, 211,” rolling my eyes, I scoot across the bed, lying out over the left side. “Just build your pillow wall and take off whatever it is you can’t sleep in.” 

“You’re on my side of the bed,” Frank protests.

“I sleep on this side of the bed.”

Frank rolls his eyes, mumbling something along the lines of, this’ll never work out, busying himself with collecting pillows and propping them up along the middle of the bed. I avert my gaze as he slips his fingers around the edge of his shirt. I’ve already done enough reckless things these past months. I don’t need to add another black smudge even if peaking might be harmless. As I hear the material hit the floor, I can’t help but part my fingers, sneaking a look. I am human after all and Mikey had insisted that humans make mistakes. 

“I can feel you looking at me,” Frank smirks. 

His chest and shoulders are littered with tattoos, the black ink starkly standing out against his tanned skin. A thin trail of dark hair dips below the waistband of his jeans. I watch as the muscles in his arms ripple, fingers working against the button on his pants. He makes a show of delicately fishing the zipper from the material, dragging it down slowly. Swallowing hard, I bury my head in the pillows, feeling my cheeks burn. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mumble into the pillowcase. 

The mattress dips as Frank lies down, “I wasn’t complaining.” 

“I don’t suspect you would,” I reach over, pulling the cord to the bedside lamp. The room does black. “Good night, Frank.” 

“Sleep well, Missus Way.” 

Sometime in the night, the pillow wall must’ve come tumbling down. I wake with Frank’s arm thrown lazily over my waist, the left side of my face pushed tightly against his shoulder. Our knees brush together, the hair of his leg ticking my naked skin. I lay there, basking in the warmth that radiates off his body in waves. Lifting a hand, I dust my fingertips over the colorful ink that’s scattered up and down Frank’s arm. He hums in his sleep, pulling me in closer to his bare chest. Frank nuzzles his head into the crook of my neck. As he dusts a kiss over my collarbone I jerk away, the gesture much too intimate. 

Frank’s eyes fly open, “Elizabeth. Shit. I’m sorry.” 

“You were sleeping. It’s okay,” I try and calm my nerves, fighting the urge to throw the covers back and leave the apartment. “I’m sure you thought I was someone else.” 

Frank’s teeth work against his full bottom lip, eyes staring blankly at the wall behind me, “Yeah. Someone else.” 

“Um, I should probably go get ready for work.” I slip out of bed; searching the floor for pants I don’t remember taking off last night. 

Frank rolls onto his back, palms working against his eyes, “I’ll, uh, call you later?” 

“Yeah. Later.” My nails dig into my forearm, working there until the skin is burning red and protesting any further touch. 

“Elizabeth,” Frank’s voice stalls me in the doorway of the bedroom. “Will you answer?” 

“Yeah, we’ll talk later.”


	14. ~14~

I jump every time my phone chimes. His name never pops up. A few texts from Mikey, a slew from work, but never him. I know he’ll be back though. He always finds a way to weasel himself into my life. Mikey said to block his number, but that would only result in him showing up on my doorstep. The last thing I need is a confrontation. I’ll crumble and we’ll end right back up where we started, hidden under the sheets, sweaty and naked. It’s one thing to hole up in his apartment; it’s another to have him in mine. In my room, in the bed Gerard and I shared. One mistake I can get over, I can hate myself but move on. If he were to show up, if something were to happen, if he was to lay his head in the same spot Gerard used to, I’d never forgive myself. 

As I curl up on the couch with dinner, waiting for Frank’s call, I try not to think about what happened this morning. I try not to think about the little shiver that ran down my spine and the way my toes curled of their own accord when his lips pressed to my skin. I didn’t want that to happen. Those responses are reserved for a man who cannot physically touch me again. I stare at his picture; the way his shoulders hunch over, one leg crossed over the other. His eyes shine through the hair that hangs in his face, vibrant and sparkling and so full of life. Gerard’s lips are tugged up into a grin, nose crinkled up. There’s a sketchpad balanced on one knee, a pencil clamped between his teeth. He was brilliant and I love him with everything I have left. 

The phone chimes, jumping across the coffee table as Frank’s name scrolls by on the screen. Setting my plate aside, I snatch the device up, sliding to answer. For a few seconds, I think it’s a butt dial. There’s static and shuffling around. Frank coughs out a few curse words. In the hall, I can hear banging around and then a door closes. It’s silent for a few seconds, then the rustle of something and then Frank’s voice. “Sorry. How was your day?” 

“Are you home?” Gathering my keys, I slip out into the hall. Shifting my weight from foot to foot I curl my fingers around Frank’s door handle. I can hear movement on the other side. 

“I know you’re standing outside, Elizabeth. Just come in.” 

I laugh, pushing the door open as I hang up the call. Frank’s sitting on the sofa, two cups of coffee already set on the wooden table. He’s drinking wine straight from the bottle. “Hi.” 

“Hello,” I fall onto the couch, propping my feet up over Frank’s lap. “Now, tell me about your day.” 

I go on about how a whole vat of paint got knocked over today at work and how all the performers were warned to stay out of it. Of course, those pretentious actor types never really listen. They tracked multi-color footprints all over the place. It was my ass that got chewed out for it as if I hadn’t put up warnings everywhere and used the last of the wet floor signs to block the area off. I came home smelling of paint fumes and duct tape; my arms coated in Vaseline and hurriedly scribbled sharpie notes. All in all it was another shitty day at work. I was more than thrilled to come home and shower and fall onto Frank’s couch. 

It’s funny, when we first met, I was terrified of coming over to Frank’s. Anytime we made plans I’d end up sitting on the kitchen floor, back pressed against the fridge trying to come up with a decent enough excuse to get out of going over. Now, I look forward to it. I enjoy sharing my day with Frank. He always has some kind of ridiculous story to add in. My day feels off if we end up missing each other or if he decides to get some extra sleep. I did fight it. I don’t want to be excited about seeing him. I never wanted to be excited about seeing anyone after Gerard. Now, I’ve rationalized that it’s okay. I should want people around. I should want to have a friend to share things with. 

Frank tells me about a recording exec who came to watch his band play. Apparently the guy liked their sound and left his business card. Frank and the rest of the band are trying to decide if he’s worth calling. They’re all thrilled with the idea of getting signed. The apprehension comes when they realize all the politics that comes with being on a label. It’ll be more an image and less about just making music they enjoy. 

“So are you going to call?” I question as Frank winds up his story, giving me a noncommittal shrug before falling against the back of the couch.

“Gotta talk it over with the guys some more.” 

I nod my understanding, “Worst you can do is hear him out. If it doesn’t sound like something you’d enjoy then just keep playing the bar.” 

“Can I lay my head in your lap?” Frank blinks at me with wide, pleading eyes. 

Patting my thighs I wait for him to get comfortable before tangling my fingers in his hair. I don’t mind being close to him so long as he keeps his lips to himself. Physical contact used to scare the shit out of me. I’d shy away from hugs and hand-holding, pushing myself into the corner of the subway just so I wouldn’t get jostled around in all the people. The past two months forced me to be okay with it. With him it was intense and too much too soon. Frank asks. He doesn’t push. If I say no he respects it. I think I’ve come to enjoy the warmth of Frank’s body pressed against mine. I think he knows. 

~

“Hey,” his face slowly comes into focus as I blink my eyes open. The feeling of soft sheets and the pillow pressing against my cheek let me know I somehow ended up in bed. “You fell asleep so I moved you to the bed. I have to leave for work. Stay as long as you’d like. There’s leftover take out in the fridge.” 

I hum back a response, pulling the blankets up higher around my shoulders. 

“Your phones been blowing up for about an hour,” Frank sets my phone down on the mattress. “Someone named Rylie.” 

My stomach and heart switch places. I should’ve known. Once you let him in he’s very good at taking up a permanent residence. A few times is never enough. I was stupid to think this time would be any different. I should’ve never answered that call. I definitely shouldn’t have found myself standing outside his uptown penthouse. Lately it feels like I’m swapping one bad decision for another. Being friends with Frank, letting him in, allowing Rylie to sweet talk me into bed, going back to Frank, expecting I could just get away with all of this with no consequences. I’ve been idiotically reckless and now it’s all going to come back and bite me in the ass. 

As the phone springs to life against the bedsheets, I answer, because if I don’t now he’ll just keep calling, “What do you need? Now isn’t a good time.” 

“It’s never a good time with you, is it Lizzie?” I can hear his tongue click against the roof of his mouth. 

Cringing at his callous use of the nickname only Gerard was allowed to speak, I throw the blankets off, suddenly too hot, “What do you need?” 

“You know I always liked your ability to cut through the small talk, get right to the point. It’s sexy.”

“I’m going to hang up.” 

My threat seems to get the ball rolling, “I missed you. It’s very lonely with all this money and no one to spend it on. Care for dinner? We can take it in bed.” 

“I already ate.” 

“Well I haven’t,” he lets out a huff and I can almost see the locks of blonde hair flying up away from his face with the sharp gust of an exhale. “Keep me company.” 

“Haven’t you got enough cheap whores to keep you company?” 

“Now, now, little Lizzie,” Rylie chides. “You can either come cure my boredom or I can stop by that shitty little bar your dearest Frankie works at and have him keep me company.” There’s a long pause and I bite my tongue, trying to keep from giving anything away. “The choice is yours.”


	15. ~15~

Most nights, I enjoy being a bartender. The people who frequent the bar I work at are burly men, ladies of the night, wannabe actors, and art students. They’ve always got colorful stories to tell. Most tip decently enough and when they can’t they’ll slide a few cigarettes or a baggie of weed across the bar top and I’ll call it even. Tonight is not one of the nights I enjoy my job.

The man sat on the stool in front of me doesn’t belong here. His fancy suit jacket doesn’t fit in amongst the leather and chains. He’s too clean-cut, floppy blonde hair falling lazily over his forehead, glittering rings adorning his manicured hands. If he weren’t tipping fifteen to twenty dollars a drink I would’ve handed him off to another bartender and went to interact with our usual clientele. The guy is tipping that well and so I’m left to lean against the bar, pretending to be interesting in his whining about having too much money and not knowing what to do with it. What a hard life that must be.

After what feels like hours, he seems to lose interest in my fake smiles and little touches. My façade of enthusiasm and mewls for more stories and syrup thick compliments don’t seem to be doing it for him anymore. He slides a napkin with his number scribbled across it toward me, handing over a crisp hundred as he tells me to call him. Yeah, like that’ll ever happen. I crumple up the napkin tossing it away and pocket the money, hoping he’ll never show up here again. This is a bar, not a brothel. Besides, I like to think I’d go for more than a hundred dollars out on the streets.

Elizabeth wanders in shortly after mister testosterone leaves. She slides onto the same stool, finger drumming against the bar top. Her whole body shakes, teeth working feverously against her bottom lip, ripping little pieces of skin off. She keeps glancing over her shoulder and jumping when the door swings open or shut. I wonder if it has anything to do with the slew of calls she got earlier as I pour extra vodka into the drink she ordered.

“Do you think I’m worth more than a hundred dollars?”

Elizabeth downs her first drink quickly, reaching over the bar to pry the bottle of vodka from my hand. I watch in mute horror as she refills her glass, tossing the clear liquid back like it’s water. “In what regard?”

“This guy came in. Not a regular. He left his number on a napkin and gave me a hundred dollars. I’m pretty positive he was trying to pick me up. I’d go for more than a hundred, right?”

“What’d he look like?” Elizabeth’s eyes widen, a nail finding its way between her teeth. She bites down too far and I shove the container of napkins in her direction as blood begins to drip over her knuckle.

“Fancy suit, blonde hair, muscles, too tan. He had these piercing blue eyes. Kind of reminded me of a Bond villain.”

“Frank,” Elizabeth’s fingers curl around my wrist, nails digging painfully into my skin. Her words come out in a panicked rush; “You threw that number away, right? You aren’t going to call him?”

“Of course I’m not. Don’t be silly. My attention can’t be bought, especially not by some pretentious trust fund fucker.” I rub gentle circles into Elizabeth’s palm, trying to catch her eyes. “Is everything okay?”

Elizabeth shifts around in her seat, shooting another glance over her shoulder as she lights a cigarette, “Just please promise me you won’t call him. Please?”

“I promise,” I agree with a nod. “You gotta tell me what’s going on, Elizabeth.”

She sighs, shaking her head sadly, “I can’t, Frank. Not right now.”

From across the bar Ray raises an eyebrow, mouthing something I don’t quite catch. I offer up a pathetic shrug, trying to convey that we’ll talk about it later. I really hate that there are things Elizabeth isn’t willing to tell me. It makes me feel like she doesn’t trust me. My stomach twists; a little voice in the back of my mind reminds me I’m doing the same thing to her.

“One day?”

Elizabeth gives me a weak smile, “Yeah, one day. Will you come over when you get off work?”

“Yeah, whatever you need.”

~

A few hours and a romp through my brain with Ray later, I let my booted foot hit against Elizabeth’s apartment door. I spent most of my shift worried that something is really wrong. Elizabeth isn’t usually elusive. She’s stuck pretty strictly to our rule of being open and talking about everything. My mind instantly went to terrifying scenarios of walking in and seeing her dead in her apartment or being drug into a car by the blonde guy that seemed to cause so much fear.

“It’s open!” The sound of her voice helps to steady my heartbeat. At least she’s not been murdered.

Pushing my way into the apartment, my eyes sweep over the surroundings, not seeing Elizabeth in her usual spot against the couch. “Elizabeth?”

“I’m in the bath,” she calls back and I hear water sloshing.

Wandering toward the bathroom, I nudge the door open. Her hand hangs over the tub edge, a cigarette smoldering away between her fingers. The curtain is shut so I move further in, settling down next to the edge of the bathtub. Leaning my back against the wall, I dig out my own cigarette, lighting it quickly. For a while, we sit in silence. I try and form my questions into some kind of order. There’s quite a few tumbling around up there and I’m afraid if I speak too soon they’ll all come spilling out in a jumbled mess.

I’d never call that guy. He’s the furthest thing from my type. I like my guys a little more on the androgynous side, less power suits and more tatty band shirts. Regardless, I’d like to know why Elizabeth was so adamant about me losing his number. I’ve never been good at blindly following orders. I need a reason, something to get behind.

Ultimately, it’s Elizabeth that breaks the silence. Her rich brown eyes find mine through the crack in the shower curtain. She leans her head back against the tiles, smiling weakly, “I’m sorry I was so weird earlier. I wish there was a better explanation for it.”

“There is, Elizabeth, we both know that,” I answer back.

The brunette shakes her head, “Not one I can give you.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“I trust you to understand I have a reason for not sharing. I trust you to give me the time I need.” The water sloshes and I can see that Elizabeth has pulled her knees up to her chest. “My life hasn’t always been sunshine and rainbows, Frank. I’m just not ready to share that stuff yet.”

I blow a plume of smoke toward the vent in the ceiling, “Okay. I’ll be here, when you’re ready, whenever that is.”

“Hey, Frank?”

I hum back a response, handing Elizabeth the towel she’s reaching for.

“Just so you know, I think you’d go for a lot more than a hundred dollars.”


	16. ~16~

"Elizabeth," I whine as the brush makes contact with my stubble-covered cheek. "It's cold."

She giggles, batting my protesting hand away. She sinks lower onto my lap, her thighs on either side of my waist, one arm thrown over my chest to hold me to the couch, "It's a mud mask, it's supposed to be cold."

"Well, I think I hate it," I grumble back as the gooey mixture sinks into my skin. It's cold and slimy and I can't believe I agreed to let her do this to me.

Elizabeth looks cute though. She's got her damp hair pulled back in a bun, mask already covering her face. It's flecked off in a few places around her cheeks and eyes, probably from her almost constant laughing at my protest. She's got on an oversized The Who shirt, the fabric dissolved in some places, the collar slipping down over her shoulder. I'm a sucker for those big eyes and pouted out lip though. I just couldn't say no. If it's going to make her smile I'll put up with shit being smeared all over my face.

Once she seems pleased with her work, Elizabeth flops down onto the couch next to me, eyes trained on the movie playing. It's my favorite film and Elizabeth has never seen it. I immediately felt it was my duty to change that. I can't believe with all the macabre stuff she's into that Elizabeth has never seen this movie.

"I might go to Europe for a little," Elizabeth announces. Her temple is resting against the back of the couch, eyes set on the side of my face.

While I may have only known her for a few months, I've grown pretty used to Elizabeth's impulsivity. She'll come up with these grand ideas for day trips and be gone a few hours later. I'm not sure if she just gets bored or if constantly moving keeps her distracted from certain elements of her life. She's asked me to come along a few times, nowhere far. To Jersey, on some hiking trip in Maine. I've never actually taken her up on the offers. It isn't that I don't want to go. I do. I just don't want to push things too far too fast. Contrary to what Mikey thinks, I would like to keep my dick attached to my body.

"What's in Europe?"

Elizabeth shrugs. She's missing the best part of the movie, "Nothing really. I've never been. Gerard and I talked about going one year for an anniversary. I feel like I owe it to him to go see what it has to offer."

"Alone?"

"Unless you're offering to come along."

Giving up on watching the movie, I readjust on the couch so that I'm properly looking at Elizabeth. She's got this kind of faraway look in her eyes like she's already picturing the vacation, "Would you want me to come?"

"Having company is never a bad thing. I could get two tickets."

Rolling my eyes, I gently press my fingers into the bare skin of Elizabeth's shoulder, pushing her just a little, "I don't need you to pay for a ticket. When do you want to go?"

"Just someday, when you're ready to go too."

Digging around in my pocket, I produce a little baggie of weed; a tip from one of my art school regulars. Flipping the bag onto the coffee table, I look over at Elizabeth expectantly, "Wanna get high?"

"Are you trying to corrupt me, Mister Iero?" She responds, giving me a playful wink

I shrug back at her, offering a smirk, "I think you were corrupted long before I came along, Missus Way."

Elizabeth spins through the apartment on socked feet. I sink into the couch as she continues her dancing. Her hair flies up around her face, creating a kind of halo. She looks so serene, eyes half-lidded, a big dopey smile, her fingers playing with the dust motes that float through the room. Elizabeth really is beautiful in her own, quirky, broken kind of way. In moments like this, seeing the weight lifted from her shoulders, I'm certain I could get used to having her around. I could so simply fall into her world. I'm quite positive I'd love it there, even if there were a few skeletons in the closets.

Fingers curl between mine, my body tugging away from the cushion. Elizabeth giggles at my groan of protest. Despite feeling like I'm moving through silly putty, I let Elizabeth hoist me up off the couch. She curls her arms around me, forehead resting against my collarbone. We sway, making slow circles across the living room floor. The music envelops us as our fingertips explore each other's bodies. Elizabeth dips her touch down my shoulders, over my hips, dusting over the skin of my lower back. I trail my hands up and over her shoulders, feeling the skin of her arms. She grins lazily up at me, biting at her lower lip.

"I've decided you're dangerous," she giggles out. "Not dangerous is a way I think you'll kill me in my sleep. But dangerous like sometimes when you look at me my heart beats a little funny."

"I'm sorry."

Elizabeth shakes her head, the lines around her eyes crinkling as she smiles, "I'd rather you didn't apologize. I didn't say it to have you say sorry."

"Why did you say it?"

I get a noncommittal shrug, Elizabeth snuggling down against me again as we continue to sway, "Just felt like something I should share, make up for not sharing earlier."

"Can I tell you a secret?" I almost bite down the words. We just got back from the guitar comment. I don't particularly want to lose her again. Despite the little pangs of worry, the words now hang in the sliver of space between us.

"I like secrets," Elizabeth winks back.

"I think you're dangerous too. In that butterflies in my stomach kind of way."

Elizabeth's lips pull up into a shy smile, teeth just sinking into her bottom lip, "You know, I think I'm just high enough for you to talk like that, 211."

~

"So why is your face so soft," Ray questions, running his knuckle over the bridge of my nose for the hundredth time tonight. Apparently I walked in with a glow. Ray thought it only appropriate to immediately begin petting me. He claims I went from crusty old man to youthful beauty overnight. I'm pretty sure he's full of shit.

Batting my friend's hand away, I slide a few beers down the bar, "Face mask, dude. Elizabeth wrestled me into it."

"Jesus, Frank, you've got it bad."

"Shut up, I don't have anything. If smearing mud on my face makes Elizabeth smile then I'll let her rub mud on my face," I give Ray a shrug, hoping to wipe away his pointed stare. "It's what friends do."

One of Ray's eyes squints shut, his eyebrow raising as he lets his hand linger on his hip, "Uh-huh. And where is little miss mud mask tonight?"

"Opening weekend of the show she's been working on. I don't expect to see her much."

"You're at work why?"

The register slides out, hitting me in the stomach, "She gave Mikey and his wife the two tickets she was able to get. I'm not really that into Broadway anyway. She knows that."

"You should still be there," Ray gently nudges me in the leg with his shoe before disappearing around the bar to help a group that's just walked in.

Maybe I should be there, tucked up in some uncomfortable chair, holding my eyelids open, attempting to not be bored out of my skull. Maybe if Elizabeth and I were further along in our friendship I'd put my hatred of show tunes aside to go support her. We aren't though and I refuse to feel bad about coming into work instead of going to the show. Elizabeth never even brought it up. She just told me she'd be busy this weekend but we could catch up on Monday. That seemed fine to me.

"She invited me to go to Europe with her," I announce as Ray finds his way back behind the bar.

The bottle in Ray's hand slips. He fumbles with it for a second, managing to get his grip back before it hits the beer-soaked mats under our feet, "What?"

"Elizabeth likes taking these trips. I think constantly going all the time helps her keep her mind from going too far down the dark hole. She mentioned she wanted to go to Europe and told me she'd enjoy the company."

"What did you say?"

"I think I gave her a solid maybe."

Ray shakes his head, dipping below the bar. He returns seconds later with another one of those stupid red and white stickers. I watch as he peels off the plastic backing, slapping the sticker across my forehead, "Mikey's gonna have your balls, dude."

"Nuh-uh, he's after my dick." I thrust my hips out provocatively at my best friend.

"He the only one?"

I'm not really sure where Elizabeth and I stand on the issue. I've spent weeks on end trying to decipher her cryptic language. Mostly I end up coming to the conclusion that it's a solid maybe. Her little freak out when I'd accidentally-on-purpose pressed my lips to her neck put me at a solid hell no, never gonna happen. She did accept my diluted admission of having a schoolyard crush last night though. Sometimes thinking about Elizabeth makes my head feel like it's going to explode. Maybe I should've told her that last night too.

"She lets me hug her and put my head in her lap. Sometimes she even rubs my head like I'm a puppy. Definitely no talk about my dick."

Ray shakes his head, chuckling, "It's been like four months man. How are you hanging in?"

"Me and my hand are very well acquainted if you must know."

This gets me a thump against the back of my head, "You're gross. Still got that guy's number from the other day? He seemed sickeningly interested."

"Naw. He's some rich pretty boy. He'd probably wanna do freaky stuff. Besides, Elizabeth made me promise not to call him. She seemed pretty hung up on it."

Ray cocks an eyebrow, "She say why?"

"No. She just said it was a story for another time," I shrug. Sure, it's this itching piece in the back of my head, but I'm not going to push. "I'm sure she'll tell me when she's ready."

"You talk to the brother?"

I did think about calling Mikey. I'm more than positive he'd tell me why Elizabeth freaked out the other night. It feels like an invasion of privacy. I don't want to fall into the habit of running to Mikey anytime Elizabeth won't instantly give me the answers I want. That'd break down whatever trust we've built up. I'm accepting that Elizabeth doesn't want to share. I'll wait around until she tells.

"Didn't feel right, ya know?"

Ray frowns, running his fingers through his hair, "I don't know. If a girl I was trying to date told me not to call some random guy at a bar and then gave me some bullshit about it not being important, I'd call the brother."

"See, that's where we differ, my friend. I am one-hundred percent not trying to date Elizabeth." Okay, so like, maybe ninety-nine percent not trying to date her.


	17. ~17~

"So, how'd the show go?" Frank questions over coffee.

I feel kind of bad. I know he came here straight from work. His black shirt is spotted with alcohol stains. There are bags beginning to form under his eyes, the color kind of drained from the usually vibrant irises. I know he's been staying up through the days in order to spend time with me. Having two completely different work schedules makes it hard to find time to hang out. Frank gives up a lot of sleep to work around when I'm free. We've not actually been able to spend that much time around each other lately. Frank insisted he wanted to meet up and that he didn't care about the lost sleep.

"Well, besides literally putting out a fire backstage, it went about as well as I expected."

It's been a long weekend. Between dodging Rylie's calls and running around like a chicken with my head cut off at work, I'm very much looking forward to falling into bed and sleeping until I'm forced to get up. I desperately need a break from real life

"There was a fire?" Frank asks, incredulously, his eyes wide.

I shrug. It's really not that big of a deal. Old stage lights and wool just don't mix. Someone will figure it out one day. It was caught early enough that the fire alarms didn't go off. I ended up with a few blistered fingers but all in all, it could've been a lot worse. "Yeah, some idiot left their costume on a light. Can you get off work this weekend?"

"Where are we going this weekend?"

"Mikey's got this rental property thing upstate. He told me I could use it whenever I wanted. You look tired; I'm fucking exhausted, Brenda in 210 keeps shrieking in the night. Neither of us is going to get the sleep we need in that apartment building. I thought maybe we could take a little trip."

Frank chews on his lip. I'm almost positive he's going to say no. He always turns down my invitations for trips. I'm beginning to think he only likes spending time with me when there's an immediate escape route. In his defense, I am a bit of a handful.

Instead of a no, Frank shrugs his shoulders, finishing off the last of his coffee, "Why the hell not? Promise me you aren't just taking me off somewhere secluded where it's easier to hide the body."

"I can make no such promise," I wink back.

Frank shrugs, "Kinky. Leave Thursday night?"

"Thursday night," I nod, smiling softly. He actually agreed. "I'll meet you in the hall."

~

The original plan was to take my car up. We'd stop at some diner along the way for dinner before continuing the drive. Frank shoots this plan to shit when he not so gently shoves a helmet at me. I stare down at it doubtfully. Riding bikes might be a fun around the block activity, but we've got a four-hour drive ahead of us. Bicycles aren't going to cut down our travel time.

"Just trust me," Frank says with earnest eyes, his thumb hooked under my chin.

It sits, shining under the parking garage lights, all chrome and black and incredibly dangerous looking. The monster growls to life as Frank lazily throws his leg over it, "No. Hell no."

"Come on Elizabeth," Frank pouts back, patting the seat behind him. "It's a motorcycle not the hounds of hell."

I continue to stare down the purring metal, twisting my hands around the straps of my overnight bag. I've seen enough movies to know those things are not safe. They're always skidding out or blowing up or throwing unsuspecting riders over the handlebars. "You've got the address right? I'll just meet you there."

"Come on," Frank climbs off the bike, capturing my face between his palms. He rubs gentle circles into my hair. "Do you trust me?"

I cock an eyebrow, "Kind of."

"Have I ever let anything bad happen to you?" His voice is gentle, coming out in husky whispers.

"We've not really been in enough precarious situations together for me to properly answer that question."

Frank laughs, shaking his head. A few strands of hair fall from their helmet trap, shadowing his eyes, "You're ridiculous. I'm not going to let the big bad motorcycle eat you. Okay? Have just a little bit of faith."

"If I die, I'm coming back to haunt your ass," I let out, allowing Frank to stow my bag away. This is such a mistake.

I get another laugh, Frank fussing over my helmet, pulling at the straps and hitting his knuckles against the hard plastic top, "I'd be upset if you didn't. Now, come on, we've got an appointment with a good night's sleep that I don't want to miss."

Frank lets me cling to him, my nails digging into the soft leather of his jacket. Despite the vibrations that seem to travel through my entire body, the ride isn't as bad as I thought it would be. Frank handles the motorcycle like it's what he was born to do. The feeling of the wind whipping by, the little rush I get in my stomach anytime the bike rumbles when we speed up, it's all kind of thrilling. About an hour in, I'm brave enough to lift my head, watching the highway lights blur past.

"Scream," Frank hollers back at me.

"What?"

My response is Frank sucking in a deep gasp of night air, letting it out in a cross between a shout and laughter. "Scream."

"Ahh," I mumble back.

Frank lifts his shoulder, my hand slipping a little. I quickly dig my nails back into the fabric there, scooting myself forward. I'm petrified of sliding right off the back even though Frank's assured me that won't happen. It still feels like a very real, gut-wrenching possibility. Gerard probably would've thought this was a trip. He would've crawled right onto the back of Frank's bike without a second thought. Hell, Frank probably wouldn't have ever been able to get him off. Gerard always had a weird fascination with motorcycles. He thought they were sexy and dangerous. I'd promptly informed him that there was no extra room in our lives for dangerous or sexy. After a fair bit of moping, he saw my point of view. If only he could see me now. I wonder if Gerard would recognize the girl I've become since he died. I wonder if he'd still be in love with who I am now if he'd be proud.

"That was weak! I know you can do better. Scream!"

Tipping my head back, I take in a deep breath. The rich black-purple of the sky stares down at me, daring me to disrupt its peaceful clam. Shaking my head, I let the yell hang in the darkness. Staring up at the stars I begin to laugh, a little bubble of happiness welling up in my stomach and working its way into my throat. Frank's laughter mixes in with mine, creating a kind of melody. I will give it to him, I feel incredibly free out here with the highway whizzing by underneath us. If this is what making a mistake feels like, I don't want to do the right thing ever again.

"Feel better?"

"I think I need to cry."

Frank laughs, "So cry. Cry and yell and laugh. It's good for you."

He sits outside the shower curtain, a hand shoved into the water spray. We didn't end up stopping for dinner. Neither one of us was very hungry. In the end, we decided sleep was more important. We can find a good breakfast spot somewhere in town tomorrow as we wander. Mikey's property is pretty close to the beach and despite the chilled temperatures, I'm dead set on getting out to the ocean.

Gerard and I used to come up here all the time for weekend trips. No matter the temperatures we'd hunker down in the sand. Mostly we'd talk and Gerard would sketch. Sometimes we napped. Gerard once packed a picnic lunch, which ended in a vicious seagull attack. In the summer we would play in the waves, Gerard throwing me over his shoulder and carrying me out further than I was willing to venture without drastic measures. I'd squeal and he'd giggle before pressing a kiss to my nose and letting me crawl up onto his shoulders. We ate in the little restaurants and bought stupid knick-knacks that sit on his art room shelves collecting dust. At one point we even talked of postponing the wedding till summer so we could have it out on the beach. I got worried about dad wandering into the ocean though so we'd benched the idea.

"Sometimes I feel guilty," I admit later, curled up in a flannel on the edge of the bed. "He's gone and I'm here laughing and living my life. I still think about him all the time, but I just feel like I'm doing something wrong."

Frank drops to the floor, kneeling between my legs. He takes my hands in his, running a calloused finger over the knuckles, "You aren't doing anything wrong. I know I didn't know him like you did, but from what you've told me, you're doing exactly what he'd want. I don't get the impression that Gerard would have wanted you to stop living."

"I guess."

Lately, I've been worried if I've let things with Frank get out of hand. It's unnatural for any friends to spend all their time together. One of us ends up at the other's apartment almost every night. We talk on the phone constantly. It feels easy, letting Frank in. I don't have to work at it. We fall into step almost perfectly, picking up right where we left off the day before. I know what people must think. I'm jumping from one thing into another, not giving myself time to properly grieve and heal. I'm easy, willing to fall into bed with any guy who pays me even the tiniest bit of attention. He won't ever say it to my face, but I know that's what Mikey thinks. My husband is dead and here I am gallivanting across the state with another man. A man I've known for a matter of months.

The way I feel around Frank terrifies me. He makes me feel alive again. Frank makes me want to go out and see new things and keep on living my life. He makes my insides feel kind of mushy, like partly melted butter. When he smiles I can't help but return it. I'm letting myself trust him. It all feels like too much too fast, but I've already cut the breaks and now I'm just white-knuckling it, hoping I don't hit the growing brick wall with enough force to send me flying through the windshield. My heart shouldn't speed up every time Frank so much as glances at me, but here I am. I feel like complete shit about it, but I don't know how to put that into words without hurting his feelings or making him think I don't want to hang out anymore.

"Come lay with me, tell me what's really going on."

Despite myself, I let my head fall against Frank's chest; let his arm curl around me. I like the warmth. I like the safe feeling I get tucked under the blankets with him. I like the way his heart thunders away under my ear.

"Sometimes, being this close with other people, it feels like cheating," I start, trying to get the jumble of feelings inside to come out in words that make sense. "I feel like I'm not supposed to be letting you in or doing any of the things we do together. Sometimes it makes me feel like I'm trying to forget him."

Frank's fingers play over the ring still prominently fixed to mine, "I don't think you'll forget him. Even if you keep going on with your life, even if you pack up and move to Madagascar and get together with some hunky island dude, I don't think you'll forget. Gerard is always going to be with you in your heart and in your memories. He's a part of who you are now. You can carry him wherever life takes you."

"People say things."

I feel Frank stiffen underneath me, watch his fingers curl into a fist, "What kinds of things?"

"They think I'm easy. They think all of this is just a distraction. They think I don't know how to go it alone so I'm leaning on you as a crutch."

"Fuck them, Elizabeth," Frank shakes his head, hair fanning out around his head. "Fuck whatever opinions they have. They don't matter. You know what's going on."

Frowning, I trace over the vein protruding from Frank's forehead, "What if it's all true?"

"It's not. You know it's not."

"Sometimes I'm not so sure."

Frank's fingers find their way to my back, trailing up and down my spine, "Well, when you're not so sure, I'll be here to remind you. I might just be a crutch but I'm gonna carry you as far as I can."

"You aren't just a crutch, Frank. You might be some other words that start with C, but crutch isn't one of them."

He laughs, "Oh yeah? What kind of other C words are we talking here?"

"Use your imagination, Frank, I'm sure it'll come up with all sorts of good suggestions." He knows what I mean. Frank always seems to know what I mean.


	18. ~18~

Waves rolling in and out, not quite sure if they want to make the beach their friend or mortal enemy. He called. When I didn't answer he left a voicemail. Sand, cool and smooth flowing freely between twitching fingers. He talked about Frank. Heart thundering in my ears. He talked about the way Frank's eyes light up when he smiles. The far away caw of a seagull, a dog's bark whipping away in the wind. He talked about how Frank's jeans stretch just right over his ass when he bends down. A steady buzz, black static clouding my vision. He talked about the way Frank's finger felt brushing the sleeve of his suit jacket. Bile, burning, tearing a hole in my throat, leaving me shaky and numb. Rylie was there, in front of Frank. Talking to Frank. Devouring Frank like he's some kind of animal for the slaughter. I hate him, but I hate myself more. I brought him back.

I left in the wee hours of the morning, just as the sun began to poke its head up over the horizon, peeking through the thin cotton curtains in the bedroom. Mikey answered on the first ring, groaning out a groggy hello. We didn't talk long. Just enough time for me to tell Mikey what is going on and Mikey to agree to give his cop friend, Pete, a call. He didn't tell me I was stupid. There was no chastising my decisions. I keep waiting for it, for Mikey to stop being so calm about everything and just blow up. He leaves me with the hope I'll go visit Gerard and a quick enjoy your weekend.

By the time I get back to the house, the water in the shower is running. Frank's gravely singing is spilling through the bathroom door. I hover outside it, listening, enjoying the tones and the slight whine. Frank doesn't like his singing voice, he says it's weak and lacks the smooth elegance most singers possess. I like it. His voice is calming, so full of broken emotions. His words wouldn't sound near as sincere without the grit.

"I know you're out there."

Grinning, I push the bathroom door open, settling on the closed toilet lid, "Am I that obvious?"

"The floorboards are very creaky," Frank answers as the water shuts off. "Where'd you disappear to this morning?"

I hand over a towel, focusing my eyes to the ground as Frank steps out of the shower, "I went to the beach, called Mikey."

"Feeling better this morning?" Frank questions cautiously, wedging himself into the closet so that he can change.

I slump against the doorframe, tugging the sleeves of Gerard's worn out flannel down over my fingers, "I supposed."

Frank and I spend the day wandering through the shops that line the beach. I realize how easy it is to joke around with him, to let myself just be. Frank makes up little stories about the other people who populate the boardwalk; a man running from the law, a couple who meets up here once a year just to share a few glances before returning to normal everyday life, a black widow rushing through her late husband's money as she searches for another victim. These light conversations and stupid jokes remind me of the beginning of our friendship. Frank isn't reserved, once against throwing himself into his thoughts and ideas without care. Frank talks without the fear of consequences, words spill from his lips and I listen, drinking them in.

At one of the shops, Frank snaps a seashell necklace around my throat, whispering something about it being six months since we've known each other. In all honesty, I haven't really been keeping track of the time. Spending almost every day with Frank just feels like something I've done my whole life. In my mind he could be an old art school friend, maybe someone I knew in high school. We certainly talk and exist together as if we've known each other longer than just half a year. I also wasn't expecting Frank, someone who regularly forgets what day of the week it is, to bring something like that up. While I try to stop it, the gentle whisper of the words, his lips right up against my ear, the sentiment, it all sends my heart racing.

Frank terrifies me. The ease with which we've fallen into step is alarming. After Gerard, I was quite certain I'd never find someone who I could so openly be myself around. Yet, here's Frank, insisting I be nothing less. He's able to read me in ways I can't. He fills in the gaps in my words, somehow always getting it right. I don't like feeling so open, at least I shouldn't. Not having to force things or be fake is incredibly freeing. I find myself relaxing into Frank, letting myself place one foot into his storm. Feelings I thought I'd never have again seem to swim, just below the surface, waiting for the ice of winter to finally melt away. That's equally thrilling and horrifying.

That night at dinner I pay more attention to Frank's lips than my food. I watch as they grow taunt when he laughs or smiles. I watch the way his tongue flicks out over them, or how the skin goes white when he bites into it. I find the movement hypnotizing. To say I've never thought of kissing Frank would be a complete lie. I have. Sometimes, late at night, right after we've hung up the phone, my mind will wander. While I'm sure most people would think nothing of it and move on with their lives, I find myself stuck. I need to know. Just once. Once and I'll have the answers I need. That thought sends my stomach rolling, the once appetizing pasta sitting in front of me now looking utterly repulsive. Sure, just once and I'll have a conclusion, but what if that conclusion leads to just twice? What if something I once thought of as completely forbidden becomes something I thoroughly enjoy? A part of me hopes that I'll hate it, that Frank will be a terrible kisser and once this is over we can go back to being nothing but friends. The other part of me kind of wants that first part to just be full of shit. Those two halves battle on through dinner and most of our walk home. By the time we've curled up on the couch I've decided it's now or never.

"Frank," I pull my eyes away from the film, turning to look at him. "Can I ask for a favor?"

"What can I help you with, Missus Way?"

His use of my last name catches the words in my throat, "Not tonight. Tonight I'm just Elizabeth."

"Okay then, what can I help you with, Elizabeth."

I figure words might not quite work for this. Slowly, I lift a trembling hand, placing it around the back of Frank's neck. The skin there is smooth, his hair sliding easily through my fingers. Letting out a shaky sigh, I push myself up onto my tiptoes. Keeping eye contact, I bring my face closer to his. Frank swallows hard, teeth digging into his full bottom lip as he realizes what I'm about to do. The slight tilt of his head, the way his tongue flicks out just for a second, lets me know he's okay with this, even excited about it maybe. Squeezing my eyes shut, I let our lips brush together. Frank's hand slides up my arm, resting on my bicep. We stay like this, lips harshly closed, holding together for God knows how long. Little sparks ripple through me and suddenly our lips aren't just touching, they're dancing, moving together as if that's what they've always been meant to do. Frank holds me to him, fingers exploring the back of my neck, my cheeks.

Ultimately, it's Frank that breaks the kiss. His fingers instantly go to his lips, tugging at the swollen skin. He blinks back at me, his cheeks a deep shade of red, "Oh."

My whole body burns, set alight by the way Frank looks at me from underneath heavily lidded eyes. It's a good burn though, the burn of something that felt dangerously right. Unlike with Rylie, this burn doesn't come with the need to instantly scrub my skin raw or avoid looking in the mirror. This burn makes me want to laugh and cry and sing all at the same time.

"Oh," I offer back pathetically, my brain still of doing loop-de-loops through la-la-land.

"I feel like this is where I should apologize, but I don't really want to."

"I would prefer if you didn't offer apologies."

Frank nods, clearing his throat as his fingers work against the tattoo on his neck, "Could I – uh – could I do it again?"

"Please."

I spend the rest of the night lost in a dangerous fire.


	19. ~19~

"Ray," Elizabeth calls from the stage as my best friend and I continue to clean up behind the bar. I watch as she picks up my guitar, slinging it over her shoulder. "Watch this."

That riff from our song that Elizabeth swore she'd learn hums out through the speakers. Ray grins, throwing his fist in the air as he does a little dance, the broom an adequate partner. As she loops the riff, beginning to play again, Ray scoops her up, the guitar wedged between them making an agitated whining noise. Elizabeth laughs as Ray spins them around. He gives her a wide smile once he set her back down. "You might have some competition, Frankie."

"Oh fuck off with that noise," I laugh back. "No one can replace this." I do a slow spin for them, smacking my hands against my jean-covered butt.

The next words out of Elizabeth's mouth cause the bottle I'm holding to fall, shattering in a spray of glass and ebony liquid, "He does have a good ass, doesn't he?"

"Yeah, it's a pretty good ass." Ray chuckles, shaking his head at my open-mouthed expression. "Still replaceable."

As Elizabeth looks away, I raise an eyebrow at Ray. His reply is to trace the outline of Elizabeth with his hands, "I'm sorry, man. Tits –" As Elizabeth turns around Ray goes bright red, hands clapped over his mouth. "– Er, breasts, over ass any day."

"Please, Ray, don't be modest because of me," Elizabeth laughs, clapping a hand over Ray's shoulder as she rolls her eyes. "We're already talking about Frank's ass, might as well throw my tits in the mix."

Ray is left to shake his head, "You never told me she was so fun, Frank."

"I wasn't aware of this side," I smile over at Elizabeth, daring to shoot her a wink. "She's a dude."

Elizabeth laughs again, the cheery sound filling the space, sending my heart soaring. It's so good to hear her laugh, to know she's really truly enjoying herself. I like seeing Elizabeth free. She sets her empty beer bottle on the bar, leaning across to gently flick the end of my nose, "That's Mrs. Dude to you."

"I will give you everything you've always wanted in life," I whisper out, leaning against the bar so that my lips are next to Elizabeth's ear. It's hard to keep the laugh out of my words, "Please make me Mr. Mrs. Dude."

A hand presses into my chest, pushing me back. Elizabeth's laugh filling my ears, "Nice try, Iero. My heart just isn't in it." Elizabeth lets out a dramatic sigh, making a show of throwing herself at Ray. "I love another."

Ray dips Elizabeth towards the floor, sweeping her back up. The two spin in circles through the bar, singing and laughing. I'm glad they're getting along. Having friends is good for Elizabeth; I think it helps her feel normal. I've known Ray way too long. He's a good dude. From our conversations, I've gathered that Ray wants to be able to help Elizabeth. It's nice that the two people I spend most of my time with can get along and joke around.

I like seeing Elizabeth stray from the inner sanctuary of our apartments. Getting out is good for her. It teaches Elizabeth how to live again. She lets me take her out on little dates, insisting we wander around Central Park or explore some new antique store she read about in the paper. Watching her come alive again is like watching someone flip on a dozen crystal chandeliers all at once. Elizabeth shines, her eyes sparkling with renewed energy. I almost forget the sad look she used to give me, the pathetic attempts at a smile. It's like watching a whole new person.

Coming around the bar, I switch off the rest of the lights, the neon signs from the businesses across the street creating a soft glow. I link my elbow with Elizabeth's, "Ready to go home, Mrs. Dude?"

~

"I'm going to kiss you again," Elizabeth announces as we fall onto my couch. "I don't want you to say anything."

I keep my hands pressed firmly into the faux leather of the cushion. Elizabeth sits down on top of me, thighs on either side of mine. The feather-light pass of her fingertips sends fire through my body. Her lips dust against mine, her breath warm against my sensitive skin. As she snakes her hand around the back of my neck, the kisses grow more feverish. Her teeth graze against my bottom lip, tugging as she pulls away. "Why aren't you touching me? I won't break."

Elizabeth pries my hand away from the couch, sliding it up her side, leaving it to rest on her shoulder. As she leans back in, I pull her in closer, our lips working together. Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling ever so slightly. I let my hand slide down her back, pressing my fingertips into her hips.

"Why?" I pull away, needing an answer. We never talked about kissing at the beach. She never brought it up and I didn't want to press the issue for fear of driving her away. I have to know now. Now that it seems the beach kiss isn't going to be the only one.

Elizabeth lets her forehead rest against mine, breathing heavily, "It makes me feel better," She intertwines our fingers, pressing my hand against her chest. Elizabeth's heart hammers away under my palm. "I thought I told you not to say anything."

"That other C-word, it was crush wasn't it?"

Teeth sink into a delicate bottom lip as Elizabeth breaks our gaze. She scrunches up her nose at the almost childish word, "Maybe it was."

"Does that mean I can do this – " I press my lips to Elizabeth's for a second "– whenever I'd like?"

Elizabeth tips back, sitting down fully on my thighs. She plays with the ends of my hair, "Yeah, I guess it does."


	20. ~20~

"Did you ask her if you two were dating?" Ray questions after I tell him about the kissing.

While I wasn't expecting him to jump for joy or throw me a party, I was hoping for a little more enthusiasm. I like Elizabeth. Sure, maybe I've been telling everyone I just want to be there for her and that's true. It's hard not to like Elizabeth though. She's so incredibly different. Her shine might have dulled, but she's still able to light up my whole world. The last six months we've spent together have been some of the best of my life. Elizabeth pushes me to be better. She came into my life exactly when I needed her.

"I never actually asked. I don't need those kinds of labels, Ray. You know they make me itch."

My best friend frowns, running a hand through his hair, "You don't like having to make a commitment, Frank. If she asked you to be her boyfriend we'd be having a totally different conversation."

"No, we wouldn't." I cross my arms over my chest, not about to put up with Ray telling me I'm scared of settling down. "I've committed before."

"That was high school. You haven't committed to anything since everything happened. Don't throw her in my face."

I scowl at Ray; "I'm not throwing her in your face. I'm just asking you not to tell me I don't know how to commit."

"So ask her to be your girlfriend," Ray challenges.

"No."

"Because you're scared."

"Because she's already got one!" I slam my hand down against the couch cushion. I don't want to be fighting with Ray. He's just so set in his ways. He's not willing to see that there can be commitment without labels.

Ray rolls his eyes, "Her dead husband isn't a boyfriend."

"You're right, he's not. Gerard is her whole fucking world! I'm not going to ask her a question she isn't ready for. I'm not going to push what she's already given me. Do you think I don't see the pain in her eyes every time she so much as bumps into me? Do you think I don't see how much she hates herself that she's letting me in? Elizabeth is trying. I'm not going to push her. She'll ask when she's ready."

My best friend deflates, his shoulders dropping, the tension melting away from his jaw. Brown eyes soften as Ray slumps back against the couch, "You really do care about her, huh?"

"Yeah. I do." Unclenching my fist, I bury my head in my hands. "It kills me that I can't ask her to be mine. That's not what she needs right now, though. I spend every day trying to show her that I can be what she needs. I just want her to know she's got someone, someone who isn't going to walk away just because sometimes it's difficult and unglamorous."

A hand claps against my shoulder, begin to rub gently up and down my back, "That's all you can do. Elizabeth is strong. You're helping her remember that. Just keep being there for her, keep showing up. She's admitted she likes you, that's a big step for her. I'm sorry I got in your face. Sometimes you dive headfirst into things. You don't think. I'm okay helping you peel her off the floor but there's no way in hell I'm doing that with you."

"Some friend you are," I snort back, feigning hurt.

Ray gives me a gentle shove, his face contorting into a happy smile, "Oh, come on, we both know you'd be lost without me."

I grin back. Ray really is a good guy. The best friend a guy could ever ask for. He's just trying to look out for me. I do have a tendency to act first and think later. Ray helps keep me grounded.

~

An hour later I sit in a hole in the wall bar surrounded by my bandmates. A gentleman in a Nirvana shirt, jeans, and a faded grey suit jacket sits across from us. So far we've talked with four different record company reps. All of them have taken us out to lavish restaurants and insisted we order whatever we wanted. Sure, the meals were good, but there are only so many times I can eat an overpriced salad while talking about the future of the band.

Walking up to the front of this place, seeing the red peeling paint on the wooden door almost felt like a breath of fresh air. This guy actually seems interested in what we want out of a contract. He listens intently, jotting down the occasional note. The others have taken notice as well, gently nudging each other under the stickered over tabletop.

"So, how are you guys feeling?"

My bandmates turn to me. The band is my baby. I got everyone together. I'm the one that writes the songs. It still feels wrong making any kind of decision without first talking it over with everyone else. "Everything seems like a dream so far. What would you need from us?"

"Just keep up the passion. You've got a good sound; very different from anyone else we've worked with before. I can assure you the label would give you full creative freedom. They see the idea and just want to give it the backing it deserves."

I nod, shooting a glance over at Ray. He shrugs, flicking his gaze over to Shaun our drummer, "Would you mind if I had a quick word with the guys?"

"By all means," the record rep slides out of his side of the booth, giving us all an earnest smile.

Ray and Shaun turn to me, their eyes alight, toothy smiles plastered over both their faces, "Dude, I think we're gonna get signed."

"Coolest suit I've ever met in my life," Shaun agrees. "I think we'd be stupid to turn this one down."

Nodding my approval, I feel the bubble of excitement in my stomach burst. The electric energy fills me, making me warm and buzzy. Growing up I never really felt I was very good at anything, really. Around ten, my dad introduced me to playing drums. I picked up the instrument quickly. With those sticks in my hand, a song playing through our ratty living room speakers, I knew I found what I was meant to do. Shortly after that the words just kind of started pouring out of me. I wrote little poems, the beginnings of what would later turn into songs. There wasn't a scrap of paper that was safe from my scribbling. To have my dreams within my grasp feels surreal.

With a nod, I bounce out of the booth, tapping the rep on the shoulder. He turns, smiling like he already knows he's won us over, that we're going to say yes. "I think we're all ready to look over that paperwork now."

"Excellent."

~

I call Elizabeth as soon as we've signed and initialed all the dotted lined. Her excited babbling and her encouraging cheering cause me to yank the phone away from my ear. She insists we need to go out and celebrate, already launching into weekend plans. I chuckle, my heart filling with a familiar warmth only Elizabeth seems to be able to bring about. I knew she'd be happy for us. She's been on the sidelines, offering words of encouragement with each new meeting. Elizabeth has shared in my defeated feeling as each representative offered a sliver of hope that ultimately came crashing down as we realized just how much creative freedom would be taken away.

"Frank? Still there?"

Lost in thought I missed whatever Elizabeth said, "Huh? Yeah, I'm here."

"Does tonight at eight work for you?"

I grin, "I'll meet you in the hall."


	21. ~21~

Frank got signed. After months of disappointing meetings and nearly losing hope, he's finally going to live his dream. I give my reflection a cheesy smile as I begin to get dressed. Some other part of me, an old part I thought I buried deep down, almost feels nervous. I've never cared about how I look around Frank. He usually sees me in ratty shirts that once belonged to Gerard and paint flecked sweat pants. When he came back after the incident in the kitchen; I simply stopped caring about looking nice around him. Tonight though, I want to look good. That old piece stirs again. I want Frank to blink at me in disbelief. I want his hungry, oil slick eyes to drink me in. I want him to look at me in that way Mikey disapproves of.

My tight leather pants and golden top get the response I'm seeking, Frank's eyes raking over me as I exit my apartment. His tongue slides slowly along his bottom lip, teeth soon sinking into the slicked skin. Frank's fingers dip into his neck, a cough escaping him as he catches himself in the act.

Pretending I don't notice, I give Frank a quick kiss on the cheek before linking our hands, "Hello pretty girl."

"Fuck off," Frank chuckles as we head down the street towards the bar.

Frank gets snatched by some of his regulars, eager to congratulate him, almost as soon as we get to the bar. I waive off his apologetic smile, finding Ray sitting at a high top table towards the back. Giving my drink order to the waitress, I slide into the stool across from Ray, "I don't think I've ever seen him this happy."

"This is been his dream since forever. He dropped out of college for this band."

"Are you happy, Ray?"

Ray nods, giving me a wide smile, "I'm thrilled. Getting paid to play music is gonna be way better than getting sexually harassed every night."

"I'm deeply sorry if any of my comments have come off in any way harassing," I joke back, "I only ever meant them as compliments."

Frank's friend laughs, his eyes sparkling in the low bar lighting, "You're comments are always welcome."

"Now, now, mister Toro, you shouldn't flirt with your friend's girl."

My comment seems to take him back, Ray chocking on the swig of his beer. He beats at his chest as he sputters out his next words, "My friend's girl? Is that what you are?"

"I guess," I glance over my shoulder to Frank. He's chatting with a few people, talking animatedly with his hands. "It's not like I spend time with anyone else. Frank is always just kind of there. I've become accustomed to it. When he's not around I feel off, like something's missing."

Ray smiles, his gaze flicking over to where Frank is, "You really like him, huh?"

I do. Over my months spent with him, I have fallen for Frank. He makes me feel free. He has this ability to bring out a different side of me; a carefree side, a side where laughter comes easily, and my cheeks constantly hurt from smiling. Frank is a refreshing presence in my life. He brings the feeling of shy flirting and first date butterflies that sends my heart soaring. I can't even hide the smile as I nod back to Ray, "I really do. The stupid fucker weaseled his way in."

"Yeah," Ray sucks on his bottom lip as he nods, "he's got that effect on people."

From across the bar, Frank catches my eye, motioning for me to join him. Offering goodbyes to Ray, I wander over. Frank is standing with a tall man dressed in ripped jeans and a light grey Rolling Stone's shirt, "Elizabeth, this is John."

It's him. I know as soon as he turns around. Sure, he might have dyed the blonde a deep, hazelnut brown. He might have switched his usual smart-looking suit for ripped jeans and a grungy band shirt. It's still him though, standing there, smiling over at me. I'd recognize those piercing blue eyes and that shit-eating grin anywhere. Rylie.

"Pleasure to meet you," he extends a hand to me. "Elizabeth, right?"

I stare back at his hand, keeping my own firmly tucked under my armpits, "Yup."

Frank smiles politely at Rylie, rocking back on his heels, "I'm gonna get us drinks."

As Frank hurries off, I turn to face Rylie, "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"You've been quiet, Lizzie. I heard you've been making new friends. I was curious. He's very cute. You've always had impeccable taste in playthings."

"Stay away from him," I hiss back. "Frank isn't part of this."

Rylie clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, shaking his head slowly, "I say whose part of this, Liz."

"What do you want?"

"I wanted to meet the guy you've been spending all your time with lately," Rylie offers with a nonchalant shrug.

"You know what I mean."

Rylie rolls his eyes, not pleased I'm unwilling to play along with his little game, "You went through a quite a lot of my stash. I just want repayment in one form or another."

When Frank and I stopped talking, I went to Rylie. He was always who Gerard got his shit from. While not wanting to be alone, I also wanted to understand the draw Gerard had to the white powder. I didn't really get it. There was no rush, no extended periods of blissful happiness. I simply felt like someone was speeding down the highway for a few seconds before they slammed on the breaks. The experiment lasted about a month before I decided it wasn't really worth my nose hurting all the time and the sticky, sickly sweet taste I got in the back of my throat.

"How much?"

Rylie's eyebrows, still a honey gold, squish together, "I'm sorry."

"How much do I owe you?"

"In cash?" He chews at his bottom lip as if he's really thinking about it. I know he'll come up with some ungodly amount, something he thinks I won't be able to afford. It doesn't matter how much I used or how much it really costs. Rylie's game is to keep me around. "I'd say five-thousand would make it about even. You can pay in other ways though."

Five thousand. I can float five thousand. The bills are all paid up and I've still got a decent amount of the money from Gerard's life-insurance payout. It isn't ideal, but I'm willing to pay it to get Rylie out of my life for good. He's a vulture. If I don't do this now he'll only demand more, take more of the life I'm building away.

I nod, "Five thousand and you'll fuck off. I'll never have to hear from you again?"

"If that's what you'd like."

"Don't leave. I need to go to the ATM," I give the man a pointed look, waiting for him to change his mind, demand even more, tell me he's going to hurt someone I love. Rylie remains quiet. "Don't you dare do anything to him while I'm gone."

Rylie smiles wickedly, "Does Lizzie have a crush? My, my how quickly you've gotten over dearest Gerard. Good for you, though. You were always too much for him. He wasn't good enough for you."

"I'm serious, Rylie."

He gives me a knowing look, "So am I."

Not willing to let his words get to me, I turn and head for the door. There's an ATM machine less than a block away. I'm sure I'll get a call from the bank, informing me about suspicious activity. As I walk, I come up with a cover story. Thinking about going out of the country, need cash to change over. No big deal. Yes, the withdrawal was mine. No, I was not being held at gunpoint or being threatened. Not really anyway.

The machine spits out the bills, crisp hundreds filling the slot. Shoving it all into my pockets, I quickly hurry back to the bar. Frank and Rylie are lounging against the couch, laughing at something. There's a spare drink resting on Frank's knee. The condensation slides down the clear glass, coating the napkin.

As Rylie catches my gaze, he gives Frank a quick goodbye. The man saunters over, lounging against the wall next to me, "This is really what you want?"

"Yes," I dig the money out from my pockets, holding it out to him. As Rylie reaches for the wad, I jerk it back, staring him down. "You will not call. You will not text. You will not show up here or at my apartment or at my work. You will forget I even exist."

I wait for him to reply, refusing to look away. Rylie is used to getting what he wants. I need to hear him say it, promise he'll leave me and Frank and everyone else in my life alone. I need to hear him say he won't be a black mark in my life anymore, "I've already forgotten you and your little playthings."

"Good," I slap the money into his waiting palm, "It stays that way."

Rylie tips his head in acknowledgment, flipping through the money, "We could've been golden, Lizzie."

"We were rusted before we even got started, Rylie. Leave."

The bell over the door tinkles as he pulls it open. Rylie gives me one more glance over his shoulder before letting the wooden barrier close. I let out a sigh as he disappears into the crowd on the street. He's out of my life. He can't haunt my dreams. He can't have my friends. I'm free.

With a lighthearted, almost floaty feeling, I slide into the empty spot next to Frank.


	22. ~22~

Gerard has been dead for a year and a half. Some days it still feels like that knock came yesterday. Others, I can almost breathe, almost free to live my own life without a cloud of guilt. My budding friendship with Ray, and Frank and I practically living at each other's apartments does help. With less time alone, I can't dwell on things. My mind doesn't have time to go to that dark place of self-loathing and guilt.

Between work, Frank, and babysitting Mikey and Kristin's new baby, I'm hardly home. The revolving door of my life keeps spinning and I just get caught up in it. For weeks on end I shed the cloak of my old life, living completely in the present. The nights I spend in my own bed are a treat. I use that time to catch up with Gerard, talking to his picture on my bedside table. He always smiles back at me, showing me the potted cactus he picked up on a trip to Home Depot. The off-center, candid pictures were always my favorite, his personality shining through.

Gerard was always into weird things; tiny shells and funny shaped plants and terrible SGI sci-fi films. I loved the way his eyes would light up, his teeth digging into his bottom lip as he smiled. I could always tell when Gerard really cared about something. I was always jealous of how he found beauty and happiness in the smallest of things. He maintained a child-like wonder that I lost around the age of twelve. Even through everything, the depression, drugs, and alcohol, Gerard maintained a sparkle that kept me hooked.

"You'd love Mikey's kid. Not even walking and already swinging around a paintbrush. I'm bringing over a few of your watercolors for the nursery. Those blue and green ones with the little birds. They're just sitting here. At least at Mikey's, someone will get to enjoy them. Frank's got one too; the lady painted as a tiger with the jungle. He put it up in his living room. He claims it's to make me feel more at home over there, but I've seen him eyeing it for a while. He's not nearly as sneaky as he thinks."

"I was close to having the money to buy that house we always passed. I only needed another three or four thousand. Rylie ruined that. Fucking asshole. What did we ever see in him? We were kinda stupid when we were younger. The funny thing is, I think we thought we had it all figured out. We were so certain of our path and how our lives would end up. Invincibility complex or something like that. We thought nothing could bring us down. I guess we were wrong. I now know that I don't really know anything, but I'm working on figuring it out. I'm gonna get that house, Gee. I'm gonna set your studio up in that spare bedroom with the big window over the back garden."

Reaching forward, I brush my fingers over the picture frame, smiling a little, "I used to think I couldn't live without you. Now that you're gone I'm learning that I need to live for you. I'm so proud of you, Gerard. Of who you were, the man you became. I wanna be strong like you. I want to see the world in vibrant colors and be amazed at all it has to offer. Not for you though, for me. It's time for me to be okay. I've got to be. People need me now. I love you, Gee. Thank you for painting my world."

~

Frank slumps into his apartment, practically throwing himself onto the couch. He lets out a heavy sigh as I wander over. Frank takes the cup of coffee I offer, almost instantly laying his head on my shoulder. I pull my fingers through his hair, rubbing little circles into his neck. Lately, he's come home defeated and bummed out. Between band practice, writing a record, meeting with the label representative, and continuing his shifts at the bar, Frank is exhausted.

"Another bad one?"

"I'm just so tired all the time," Frank answers with a roll of his eyes. "We're behind on writing the album because I can't come up with anything worth putting on paper. My boss at the bar keeps coming up with new ideas to make more money. You know he wants us to start working shirtless after ten?"

Pressing a kiss to the top of Frank's head, I intertwine our fingers, "Don't let all that discourage you. The band is amazing. You'll write the record and it'll be the best thing anyone has ever heard."

"How do you know?"

"Because everything that's meant to be works out in the end."

"What if it isn't meant to be?"

Laughing, I flip around so that I'm sitting on Frank's lap, our chests pressed together. I link my fingers behind his neck, resting my forehead against his. Grinning, I dip in closer to press my lips to his, "Do you love doing it?"

"Yes." Frank kisses me.

"And do you feel like it's the one thing in life you're supposed to do?"

Another kiss as Frank nods, "Of course."

"Then – " I capture his bottom lip between my teeth, nibbling gently "– it's meant to be."

Frank hums back, rubbing his nose against mine, as he slides his fingers through my hair, "It could just be a kiss clouded brain, but I believe you."

"As you should, Mr. Iero, as you should."

His lips find mine with hungry urgency.

~

I stare at the purple silicone for a long time, reading and re-reading through the little instruction booklet. I've not felt the need to get-off in a long time, not since everything with Rylie. Sex has been the further thing from my mind. Lately, I can't seem to shake the feeling. This led me to dig Kristin's anniversary present out of the hall closet. As it sits charging, the little blue lights of the button blinking, I try to decide if this is really what I want. It can't hurt anything. If I hate it I can just stop, put the toy away and forget all about it. If I enjoy it, great, maybe it'll help me stop thinking about Frank naked.

Those thoughts scare the shit out of me. Sure, I may like him, but the idea of having sex with someone not connected to Gerard feels like cheating. The idea of actually enjoying it, wanting to do it over and over; the guilt has already started to eat at the inside of my stomach.

I didn't mean to see him like that. He didn't know I was there. I'd slipped into his apartment to the sounds of the shower running. Thinking nothing of it, I started to make coffee, watching the birds fly around outside the window. Frank obviously didn't hear the door open. He comes sauntering into the living room, butt ass naked, a towel working against his hair. We'd stared at each other, each going a deep shade of red before he scurried off to the bedroom, shouting apologies. I'd played it off as nothing, acting as if the situation didn't faze me. Ever since I've not been able to get that image out of my head. Frank standing there, stretched out, torso, arms, and legs completely covered in bright ink. He's a well-toned piece of walking art and he doesn't even know it.

As the blinking lights go solid blue, I crawl under the covers, discarding my pajama shorts. Hitting the button, the toy jumps to life, vibrating my whole hand.

As I tip over the edge I see Gerard. His skin glistening under a sheen of sweat, dark hair plastered against his forehead. I see the way his lips part, almost feeling the heat of his breath as he pants against me. I can hear his soft moans; hear my name hanging in the silence of the bedroom. But the eyes staring down hungrily at me aren't Gerard's. The eyes that make my flesh erupt in goosebumps, make my stomach twist in hot little knots are oil-slicked.


	23. ~23~

I'm changing. I take notice of the way the sky looks as the sun is peaking over the buildings. I pay attention to the flowers poking up between the cracks of the sidewalk. Instead of smoking in the apartment, I take trips outside, just enjoying the sounds. Even the constant blare of emergency sirens and car horns don't grate on my nerves the way they used to. I take time to enjoy the little things, to really feel and think.

I know its Elizabeth or a part of her at least. That's the only thing that's new. She brings new energy into my life. She makes me want to treasure every minute. Elizabeth pries at a part of me I thought was long dead. For years I've just been going through the motions, just living day to day. Any thought of really stopping to appreciate left long ago. I watched my passion drain away. Now, I can feel it, fluttering around in my stomach and making me warm and buzzy. It's like a permanent drunk without the terrible comedown or pounding headache.

She's changing too. The cloud that once hovered over Elizabeth seems to have cleared. She smiles now, the sadness melting from her eyes. A kind of light radiates off her. She dances and sings and jokes as if it's the most natural thing. The more time she spends out of the apartment, the more she blooms. There are still bad days of course. I'm almost certain there will always be bad days. The effects just aren't as severe anymore. She can brush off a night of tears and just keep plowing ahead. Watching Elizabeth heal continues to push me forward, fueling that fire of ambition inside.

~

Mikey's house is dark when I pull into the driveway. Shutting off the engine, I double-check the address Elizabeth sent me; this is the right place. It's the epitome of suburban America. The postbox with mums around it, the little white fence, the porch swing, it's everything someone could want. Sighing, I head toward the front door. A paper sign is taped to the light blue metal, come in, across it in Elizabeth's neat, all capital handwriting.

"Surprise!"

The living room lights flip on; a plume of confetti is dumped over my head. Elizabeth throws her arms around me as she presses a kiss to my cheek. All my friends are here, the guys from the bar, a few old friends from high school, even a few of my favorite regulars. Elizabeth went out of her way to set this thing up.

"Happy birthday, 211."

Grinning, I brush my lips against the tip of Elizabeth's nose, curling my arms around her waist, "You outdid yourself, Mrs. Way."

"Don't give me all the credit. Most of this was Ray."

"Will he accept my thanks?" I whisper back.

Elizabeth shoots me a wink, "Hardly. Now, go mingle. Enjoy your party."

I go through the usual hellos and catching up that comes along with these kinds of things. Ray was able to get ahold of Bob, my college roommate, and ex-boyfriend. The two of us end up on the back porch, smoking and reminiscing about my short-lived experience in the dorms. He's working back in New Jersey as a building contractor, owns his own company and everything.

As Elizabeth brings out more beers, Bob's eyes follow her, watching as she disappears back inside, "She the new girlfriend."

"Something like that," I shrug back.

I've still not brought up the topic with Elizabeth. On one hand, it's exactly what she is. I don't want to go out and fool around with other people. Apart from a few well-placed comments to get more of a tip at work, I don't even really flirt with other people. Elizabeth is all I want. On the other hand, I just don't know if that's how she sees it. I'm scared to ask. I don't want to have to hear her tell me I'm sweet and she likes spending time with me, but that she just doesn't see me that way. No labels are better for right now.

"You haven't asked?"

Taking a swig of beer, I shake my head, "It's a little more complicated than that."

"There's nothing complicated about how she looks at you, Frank. I was here for an hour or two before you got here, helping set up, and all she talked about was how excited she was for this and how much she hoped you'd enjoy yourself. You're her boyfriend whether the question has been asked or not."

I can't help but smile. I know Elizabeth likes me. She's not really made that too much of a secret. I just still don't know if those feelings go beyond a casual crush. I keep waiting for her to realize that I am just a crutch. I keep waiting for her to realize she doesn't need me anymore; that she's healed. "I don't know, dude. She's different."

"Aren't they all? You know my boyfriend Bert purposed. We're planning the wedding for the summer."

"No way. That's awesome. He's the architect, right?"

"Yeah, that's the one. You and Elizabeth should come."

I snort, "Won't that be weird. Your ex-boyfriend coming to your wedding?"

"Naw," Bob gets up, patting me on the back, "You're a friend, Frank. I want my friends there. You let that girl love you, okay? None of this running scared crap you used to pull."

~

Elizabeth ends up driving me home. After cake, we all play some kind of card game that I am terrible at. Each time I pull the wrong card I get fed another shot. By the end of the night, I can hardly remember why I am at Mikey's house in the first place. Elizabeth just laughs and lugs my drunken ass out the front door, smiling the whole time. She isn't even angry. Even when we have to pull over on the highway for me to puke, she just rubs my back and ensures me we'll go through a drive-through to fill me up with something other than whiskey.

Once home, she pulls off my shoes and lets me rest my head in her lap as the whole bedroom started to rock up and down, "You gonna throw up again?"

"I don't think so. Can you turn the light off?"

Elizabeth dips forward to kiss my temple before reaching over to turn the lamp off, "Better?"

"Still feel shitty."

"What would help?"

Rolling over, I wrap my arms around Elizabeth's waist, my words muffled by her sweater, "Can you rub my back?"

Elizabeth chuckles, but I feel her nails begin to dust over my shirt. Humming into the touch, I press further into her. I let my eyes close, just focusing on the pass of her fingers. It's calming, pulling my brain away from my unsettled stomach. The pounding in my head begins to fade as I relax into the gentle touches. "You're such a baby, you know that?"

"You're never going to let me live this down, are you?"

Another feather-light kiss, "It's your birthday. You get a pass."

"Not really my birthday," I mumble back.

"Close enough, besides, I doubt you'll remember anything in the morning anyway. Sleep now."

"Elizabeth?"

She hums back a response, continuing to rub delicious patterns into my back, across my shoulders, tracing over the tattoos on my arms.

"I think I'm falling in love with you."


	24. ~24~

A year. October to October. It doesn't seem like I've known Elizabeth for a whole three-hundred and sixty-five days. In some ways, I feel closer to her than ever. She spends most nights in my bed, even accepting when I throw an arm over her waist, pulling her into my chest. We share dinners and movies and stupid sticky-notes plastered over each other's doors. In other ways, I feel like I still don't know her. Like there's a part of her she keeps hidden. Gerard is a whole other story. I know enough about Gerard to be in love with the man. I know how he likes his coffee, no cream, two sugars, and what his favorite color is; red, and how he bounces his leg when he drives through the city because the traffic makes him nervous. I know those things about Elizabeth too, but there's still something missing.

I use Mikey to fill in some of the pieces. He's become more of a friend over this past year. We meet for breakfast a few times a week and discuss life. When he can get a free night he'll come to the bar and grab a drink or watch my band play. He asks about my work and the band and about Ray. I ask him about his wife and how being a dad is. Usually, I save all my questions about Elizabeth for the ends of our talks. I get the feeling Mikey still doesn't trust me a hundred percent. I wouldn't want him to think our friendship is only because of Elizabeth. He's a pretty interesting guy with hilarious stories and a quick wit.

"What kind of music does she like? She's worn through all of the CDs in her car and I want to make some more for her Christmas gift."

Mikey shrugs, picking at the waffle on his plate. His daughter is teething and he's not been getting very much sleep, "All sorts. Old 80s stuff is some of her favorite. She's really into Smashing Pumpkins, The Smiths, The Who, David Bowie. She also likes trashy rap, but only when she's drunk and wants to dance."

"Elizabeth likes trashy rap?" I blink back at Mikey, trying to figure out if he's fucking with me or being serious. Trying to picture Elizabeth listening to rap just makes me laugh. She seems so much more refined than that.

"Take her to a club," Mikey encourages. "She's a wild woman. Gerard loved that side of her."

Elizabeth dyed her hair cherry red. The strands hang haphazardly in her face, a stark contrast to the dark eye make-up and jet-black silk that covers her thin frame. The lights bounce off her skin, turning it electric blue and vibrant red and neon green. She smiles lazily at me, bright red hair flying out around her face as she dances around. As the beat picks up, she reaches out to me, her body instantly beginning to work against mine. Her fingers trail over my face, little lines of fire left in their wake. Elizabeth pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, releasing it painfully slow as she stares me down from underneath fluttering eyelashes. Hot breath slides over my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. She's dangerous and devastatingly gorgeous and I'm not about to put a stop to her tongue slithering up my neck and across my jaw.

In this moment, I would do anything for her. We came together, walking with our elbows linked. That doesn't mean she has to leave with me. Yet here I am, body moving in time with Elizabeth's, her hands running up and down my arms, wrapping around my neck. In a sea of people, she pulled me in. My forehead tips against hers and I can't help but smirk. I see the jealous looks the other guys shoot me. Elizabeth is the best-looking person in here by a landslide and she's curling around me and dammit if I don't feel like the luckiest bastard alive.

I'm hyper-aware of the fact that Mikey is somewhere, probably perched on a barstool watching the whole thing through a cloud of disapproval. Even knowing that I can't push her away or tell her not to let her lips wander over my exposed skin. I've wanted this contact, imagined what it would feel like for months now. It's better than any scenario I could ever come up with. My whole body feels like it's on fire, bolts of electricity running through me making my brain fuzzy. I mean yeah we've kissed, but not like this. Elizabeth lets my hands explore, trailing over the dips of her collarbones, the curves of her hips. The silky material of her dress feels like water under my shaking fingers. As the material hitches up, my palm connecting with the milky skin of Elizabeth's outer thigh, I go to move away. Her fingers intertwining in mine holding my hand there stills my movement.

Elizabeth drags me back into my apartment, throwing me down across the bed. My back bounces against the sheets, eyes following the girl's movements. She strips out of her leather jacket, kicking off her heels. I scoot back a little as Elizabeth crawls on top of me. Her lips find mine, the kisses quickly turning open-mouthed. I trail my tongue over her bottom lip, asking for permission. We might have spent the better half of the night attached at the lips, but it still feels polite. I'm not quite sure where she's expecting the night to go. I don't want to take advantage, even if this is what I've been thinking about for way too long.

She makes quick work of my shirt, pulling it over my head and tossing it across the room. As she beings to fumble with the button on my pants, I catch her hand. Elizabeth lets out a frustrated groan, pressing more of her weight against me. "Are you sure this is what you want?"

"Seriously?"

"I just – you're very drunk right now and I don't want you to do anything you'll regret."

Elizabeth bats my hands away, popping the button and beginning to slide down the zipper. As her palm grazes against me I pathetically fail to swallow down a moan, "Frank. I am a grown woman who wants to have sex with a man she thinks would look better naked. I don't need you to make decisions for me."

By the time her dress slides off onto the bedroom floor, I've accepted that we can deal with the consequences in the morning. For now, I loll my head off to the side, letting Elizabeth suck bruises into the flesh. Her lips and tongue work sloppy kisses down over my chest, moving to my hips. She gets distracted there, resting her cheek against my thigh, gentle fingertips dusting over the birds and words inked over my stomach. I tangle my hand in her hair, working my fingers against her skull.

Deep chocolate eyes look up at me, a small smile set on Elizabeth's painted lips, "I like your tattoos. They're sexy."

The smile twists into a devilish smirk, teeth grazing against a delicate bottom lip. And then her tongue comes out to play and I'm left a moaning mess against the sheets.

"Jesus, Frank," Elizabeth runs her knee into my butt, pushing me forward, "You don't need to be so fucking gentle."

I tried to pull up the stories Elizabeth told me about Gerard and her having sex. She never got into much detail. She'd go on and one about the way his lips would trail over her and how he would draw little shapes into her skin. That didn't seem to make Elizabeth happy. She'd complained I was going too slow and being a tease. As she gives me another nudge, I throw all the stories away, going about it in the only way I know how. This gets the response I was looking for, Elizabeth's teeth sinking into my shoulder.

The next morning I expect Elizabeth to want to talk about what happened. Instead, she tugs one of my shirts over her head, poking at a hickey on my neck. She makes a rather crude joke about leaving my money on the table before disappearing across the hall. Folded on top of my coffee table, next to a cup of coffee, is a pair of lacey black underwear. And she tried to call me a tease.

"You forgot something!" Because the muffled laughter when I groaned about the underwear let me know she's hovering in the hallway.

There's a sharp kick to my front door, "I'll get them later!"

~

As I settle back into bed, my phone chimes. Mikey's name scrolls over the screen and I debate not answering. I know exactly what he wants to talk about. I also know how annoyingly persuasive he can be. If he wants to know something he will. I stand no chance of not spilling the beans here.

"Don't think I didn't see you two slip off last night," Mikey starts in before I can even say a proper hello. "Don't think I didn't see you pawing all over her either because I most definitely did."

Smirking, I light a cigarette, blowing the smoke up toward the ceiling, "Hey, she was pawing me too."

Mikey huffs and I'm sure he's pacing back and forth somewhere, one arm thrown into the air in exasperation, "She's allowed to paw all over you. You, on the other hand, are not allowed to paw back."

"That's sounding dangerously close to a double-standard there, Mikey."

The other end of the phone goes scarily silent, "Oh my God, you slept with her!"

"What? How did you – never mind," Curse Mikey and his weird deductive brain. "We didn't do anything she didn't want to."

If only Mikey could see me now, lounged naked against rucked up sheets, deep purple hickeys dotting my neck and chest, Elizabeth's panties resting on the bedside table. I think the poor man would have an aneurism.

"Elizabeth is fine with whatever when she's that drunk, Frank! Are you an idiot? Did you even stop to ask if she was okay or were you already out of your clothes when the front door shut?"

"I'm not an idiot, Mikey. Do you think that little of me? Of course, I asked her!" Sucking in a few deep breaths, I try and steady my temper. Mikey is a big part of Elizabeth's life with a lot of influence. I don't want to tick him off more than I already have. "I stopped her so much she got annoyed and threatened to tie me to the bed with my socks. She's a grown woman, she can make her own decisions."

"She's a heartbroken girl who has to be peeled off her bathroom floor at least once a month," Mikey argues. "You don't know her. Not really. There are things, about her past, things I know she hasn't told you."

Rolling over in bed, I press my cigarette into the ashtray. Mikey and I see Elizabeth very differently. I don't care if she's keeping secrets, not most of the time anyway. I don't really care all that much if she's had a spotty past. We all have. There are things I've yet to tell Elizabeth about myself. Sure, she may be a heartbroken girl, but she's so much more than that. She's capable and independent and she's a fighter. The woman that was here last night knew what she wanted. She knew that if she wanted to stop I would. She knew that she could wake up in the morning and talk about it if she wanted to. Elizabeth doesn't need to be protected in the way Mikey is trying. Most of the time, she can take care of herself, happy to stand on her own two feet.

"She's still capable of making her own decisions. Look, Mikey, I know you care about her and you're just trying to look out for her best interest. I have no intention of hurting her or taking advantage. If it'll make you feel better I'll talk to her about it when she comes back over."

Mikey sighs, "Just – I know she seems strong, she's very good at putting on a brave face. Underneath it all, she's still fragile. I don't want to see her get hurt."

"I have no intention of hurting her. I'd never want that."

"Yeah," Mikey pauses, "Okay."


	25. ~25~

Last night. The lights danced against our skin, throbbing in time with the music. We danced and he let me kiss him. God, he let me kiss him. Not the usual quick pecks or delicate make-out sessions we have on his couch. It was hot and heavy and messy. He let himself enjoy it. Last night I slept with the guy across the hall. Fucking 211 and his stupid jokes and his ability to always be there when I need him most. I slept with Frank and I enjoyed it. No, enjoy isn’t a strong enough word. I’d felt whole for the first time since losing Gerard. I felt a part of me heal, fully, no scab or scar left in the wound’s wake. Fixed. 

I go to the graveyard. I walk right up to his headstone, sitting with my back pressed against the cool stone, cheek resting against the smooth curve of the top. My eyes stay trained on the trees off in the distance as I twist my wedding ring around my finger. 

“I slept with him, Gee. You already know that though, don’t you? I just want you to know I’m still yours,” Slowly, I slip my wedding band off, looping it onto the chain around my neck. It clinks against Gerard’s ring, sparkling in the sunlight. “I’ll always be yours. But – uh – well, I guess I’ve met someone. That sounds ridiculous, I know, but he’s a good guy, Gee. He takes care of me. He’s gentle and patient. I was so scared for so long because being with him felt like being with you. I fought it. I really did. I never meant to get a crush on the guy across the hall.” 

“I guess I just want you to know that I still love you, so much. I’m always gonna fucking love you, Gerard. You knew me, the real me, messy bits and all. People keep telling me you’d be happy for me. You’d be thrilled I wasn’t wasting away to nothing, pining over what could have been. It took me a long time to believe them. But I know you. I know you’d be happy for me. I know that, if I had been the one who died, I would’ve wanted you to meet someone. Hell, I would’ve loved to watch you and your own 211 figuring out life together. Maybe my 211 and your 211 would’ve been the same person. Frank swings that way, ya know.” 

“This morning, when I got back to the apartment, there was a little robin perched on the branch of that tree outside the window. I stopped and I looked at it. It just sat there, bathing in the sun, picking at its feathers. But it looked up at me. It let out this beautiful little chirp and then took off. I know that was you. That was you, right? That was you telling me you’re here even when I can’t see you. It was you saying to take his hand and let him lead me into something new.” 

“I love you, Gerard. I have loved you since that day in art class when you spilled paint all down my pants. It’s because I love you that I’m letting Frank in. I think that you sent him to me for that reason. So, thank you. You always were amazing at giving gifts. I’m sorry it took me so long to get here. I’m glad I was able to though. I hope you’re proud of who I’m becoming. For the first time since you died, I’m proud of myself. It feels good. I miss you, every day. One day though, I’ll come for you. I hope you’ll be waiting.” 

The soft song of a bird singing cuts through my rambling. A little robin peers up at me through large, black eyes. It chirps a few times, hopping around as it flutters its wings. Giggling, I watch as it takes off, flying into the afternoon sun. “I love you too, lover. Keep all the other angels up there entertained. Say hi to grandma Elena for me. I’ll come see you soon.” 

Pressing my fingers to my lips, I slide them across the smooth marble. There is a thin line on my finger, a band of pale white against tan. He’ll always be with me. 

~

“Do you even like him or is he just another distraction? Another Rylie to help fill the void?” 

“Don’t you ever compare Frank to Rylie,” I bit out, slamming my palm down hard against the wooden tabletop. “Frank is nothing like Rylie.”

Mikey stares back, his eyes dark and stormy, “Answer the fucking question, Liz.” 

“Yes, Mikey. I like him. And I hate myself for it. But I won’t stop,” I drop my gaze, mumbling out the next words, “I can’t stop.” 

Gerard’s younger brother lets out a long sigh, his fingers tugging at the roots of his hair. It needs re-dyed, the dark pushing into the platinum blonde. Mikey’s been neglecting a lot, his focus on the new baby. I wish he would take me off his already too-full plate. He doesn’t need to protect me. Mikey doesn’t need to be my savior. I can be that for myself. Sure, he’s Gerard’s brother but that doesn’t make me his responsibility. 

“Does he even know about Rylie? Do you only tell him all the good things Gerard did? Did you tell him about the drinking? The drugs? Gerard wasn’t always a good guy, Liz! He sucked! He was so fucking selfish all the time! You wouldn’t even be mixed up with Rylie if it wasn’t for him!” 

Mikey breaks down into a fit of sobs, his shoulders wobbling violently. Getting up, I slide into the booth next to him, wrapping my arms tightly around him. Mikey cries into my shoulder, clinging to me as if I’m all that’s keeping him tethered to the world. I rub gentle circles into his back, telling him it’s going to be okay and that he’s okay. After a while, he pulls away, sniffing as he rubs at his eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Mikey’s voice cracks. “I’m not angry at you. I’m angry with him. You should be with Frank if you like him. You should move on with your life.” 

Keeping an arm wrapped around Mikey, I coax his head back to my shoulder, playing with the ends of his hair, “I love Gerard. I love him despite everything, despite the alcohol and drugs and even Rylie. I played just as much of a part in that as he did. I love your brother because he’s difficult, because he’s sometimes selfish. Don’t be angry with him. Forgive him for his faults. Accept him for who he was. He was a really amazing guy, Mikey. We both know that. Gerard was so loving and desperately wanted to feel that love in return. Sometimes it clouded his judgment. Mostly it made me love him even more.” 

“You should tell him, Liz. If you’re going to keep this up, he deserves to know.” 

I nod, knowing that arguing with Mikey right now would only lead to more frustrated yelling and hostility towards one another that we don’t need, “I’ll get around to it.” 

“Don’t shove it off, Liz,” Mikey huffs back, shaking his head. “You have a tendency to avoid the conversations you don’t want to have. Frank should know. What if Rylie comes back?” 

“He’s not coming back, Mikey. I made sure of that.”


	26. ~26~

"Can we talk about last night?" Frank says as soon as I walk in the door.

Dropping the takeout on the coffee table, I slump back against the couch. I knew he was going to be overdramatic about this. Nothing is ever just meaningless with Frank. He can't let things be. I think Mikey's scared him into believing I'm some fragile doll that could break under the slightest touch. Everything Frank does feels so calculated. It's not like it was when we were getting to know each other. Then he spilled all over, flinging words at the wall just to see which ones stuck. Now he thinks before he speaks, moving almost robotically. It makes me feel weird like I'm hanging on a wall and he comes by every now and again to observe.

"What part of last night? The part where we went out? The drinking or the dancing? The part where we kissed and then came back here and had sex?"

Frank drops onto the couch cushion next to me, "Mainly that last part."

"Fucking Mikey called you, didn't he?" I throw my hands into the air, shaking my head. "What did you tell him?"

"Elizabeth. We should talk about it," Frank presses. "More than just you admiring your handiwork."

"If this is your nice way of saying thanks but no thanks, just come out with it already."

Frank's eyes fly open; his jaw hanging slack as his head rapidly moves back and forth, "No! God no, that is not what I'm saying at all. I just – are you okay with it?"

"I wouldn't be sat on your couch watching you make ridiculous faces if I wasn't. We're two adults. We had sex. Sex is a fun activity adults are known to participate in from time to time." I prop my feet up on the coffee table, grabbing my container of takeout, "Eat before it gets cold."

I get a defeated sigh, "This conversation isn't over."

"Okay, dad," I chide back, shooting Frank a playful wink.

After a few minutes of silence, Frank discards his food, slumping back against the couch. He lets out a little whimper of discontentment. I know I should hate the way he stares me down, eyes wide and cloudy, the colors all running together. I should hate the way he sucks at his bottom lip, teeth nibbling at the skin. But I don't. I can't. Not really anyway.

"I'm being serious, Elizabeth. Mikey said – "

I cut him off, not interested in hearing what little snippets of my life Mikey's been feeding him, "Mikey says a lot of things, Frank. Ever since Gerard died he thinks it's his job to protect me."

Putting aside my own food, I blink innocently back at the man sitting across from me. Usually, I can get what I want. People don't want to argue with the dead guy's wife. It's dirty and foul and leaves my chest aching, but I can use it to my advantage. All I have to do is pull the Gerard card and Frank is willing to put whatever conversation we're having to bed. Right now, I'd really like him to shut up about Mikey and his apprehensions about last night. I'd like him to lay his lips against mine all needy and hungry and to feel his body pushed against mine.

I shouldn't have enjoyed it, but I did. Frank is rough and sloppy. He lets his hands linger for too long. He lets his lips and tongue and teeth leave behind rich dark marks. He can't keep up a rhythm to save his life. Frank lets breathy little moans fall from his lips with no care of what they say or mean. Watching him come undone, fingers tangled in my hair, my name falling from his lips; that's better than any high I've had in my life. Gerard was always so gentle and I liked that, enjoyed it, and writhed under his touches and fancy words. Frank is completely different. Frank is aggressive and fast and I can very easily see myself getting addicted to the way he moves. Last night, I felt like I got back the Frank I first met. He wasn't calculated. He let himself just be. It was intoxicating.

"Can I ask you a question?"

Frank nods, brushing a few strands of hair away from his eyes, "Anything you'd like."

For a few seconds, I'm pulled back to that night in his bed when I'd asked his name, "Did you enjoy it?"

"What answer would you like?"

"The truth."

We stare at each other. Frank blinks back at me, attempting to hide the blush rising to his cheeks behind a colorful hand. Gently, I rock forward, prying the fingers away from his face, holding the hand trapped between Frank's thigh and my touch. I know I'm walking a dangerous line. I simply don't care, at least not right now. Right now I want to see the way he stares me down underneath long, thick eyelashes. I want to see the way his tongue flicks out over his full bottom lip. I want to see the light pink turn into a deep red, moving up past his cheeks to settle along the tops of his ears. Frank pants, readjusting so that our hands slide further up his leg.

"Then yes. I enjoyed it."

"More."

He seems to understand what I'm saying, "I enjoyed the way that stupid dress bunched up around your thighs. I enjoyed the feeling of your teeth raking up me. I enjoyed your hot pants and your nails digging into my back. And fuck –" Frank's head tips forward, forehead colliding with my shoulder. He takes a sharp inhale and I feel him twitch under my touch. "I'm also fucking terrified because last night -" he hums "– God last night. But I'm worried you're just brushing it off because you regret it but you don't want to tell me."

"I don't regret it. I don't know what Mikey told you, but he's wrong. I'm not going to disappear. I need you to believe me because there's only so many ways I can string the words together." I pet his head, letting my fingers tangle in his dark hair. "I'm not upset. I don't hate you. It wasn't a mistake. Believe me. Please?"

He nuzzles my neck, experimentally pressing kisses against the skin, "You promise?"

Frank's next action makes me laugh. He pulls away from me, offering me a pinky. Crinkling my nose, I resist giving him an eye roll. Instead, I link my pinkie with his, pressing a quick peck to the intertwined fingers. He really is ridiculous. "I promise, silly boy."

"Not a boy," Frank mumbles back, his forehead finding it's way to my shoulder again.

I chuckle, "That's right. Silly of me to forget. You're a pretty girl, aren't you?"

"The prettiest." And then his lips meet that sweet spot right below my ear and any other gentle jests I have slip away.

~

"I like your hair. I don't remember if I told you last night or not," Frank says hours later, pulling me closer to his side, fingers playing absentmindedly with a few red strands that splay out over the cream pillow. The way his bare skin feels against mine sends little pops of electricity running down my spine.

I hum back a response, mind already flying off to some distant place. Lately, I feel as if I've only been half present. Not just with Frank, but with everything. My mind wanders, mildly obsessed with the idea of death and dying. I wonder if Gerard is someplace nice or if he's just ceased to exist altogether. I've tried having the conversation with Mikey a few times, but he doesn't seem all that interested. Mikey just thinks the lights went off in Gerard's brain and that's it, nothing else. No shiny palace in the sky or the ability to float around like some kind of cosmic plasma. I'm not so sure I like that answer. I don't like to think of Gerard as just being that body buried under the dirt. I desperately need there to be something more, even if I don't fully believe in it.

"Frank," I cut through his mindless rambles. "Do you think dying is lonely? Or do you think that the people who died before you are there waiting to take your hand and guide you into whatever comes after?"

Cloudy eyes blink back at me. I watch as the sex haze drains from them, a bright, shining understanding taking its place, "I don't really believe in God. A shock, I know with how well I got on in Catholic school. But, uh, I think there's gotta be something. I don't think we just cease to exist."

"I think so too. I like to imagine Gerard up there, lounging on a cloud, painting little miniatures of the city. Thinking like that keeps me from getting angry. Sometimes I just get so angry. Why didn't he just look again? Why did that guy have to be drunk? Why couldn't have Gerard just heard him and gotten out of the way? It's all so frustrating because we know what happened, but we don't, not really. And they never fucking caught the guy who did it. Stupid traffic light cameras. And I should've been there. I should've just gone and picked him up instead of letting him take the train."

A finger curls under my chin, forcing my gaze off the back wall and onto Frank's oil-slicked eyes, "Hey – " he rubs little circles into my cheek with his thumb. "You know that none of what happened was Gerard or your fault. The only person to blame is that drunken asshole who ran the red light. You couldn't have done anything to change what happened. Gerard couldn't either."

"I could've been there."

"What? So you both could've died?"

I shrug, "Maybe that would've been better."

"I don't think so," I can see the mask of sadness sweep over Frank's face. I know he hates it when I talk like this. To Frank, every life is precious. We're supposed to take what we've been given and make something great from it. I'm not quite sure what you can make with the pile of dog shit I've been handed. "If you had both died I wouldn't have ever met you. That makes me sad."

Frowning, I flop onto my back, beginning to trace over the tattoos of Frank's arm that still lays lazily over my waist, "If we had both died you wouldn't know the difference."

"Perhaps not, but I would now. Hearing you talk like that makes me sad and scared. I don't want anything to happen to you. You deserve to be happy, Elizabeth. You deserve to have a fulfilling life, even with everything that's happened."

I roll my eyes, sticking my tongue out teasingly in an attempt to hide the blush that's risen to my cheeks. Despite myself, I do enjoy it when Frank gets all sweet and sentimental. It shows he cares. Ultimately, I just want someone around who gives a shit. "You going all soft on me, Iero?"

"Oh," he gives me a mischievous wink, "I wouldn't dream of it."


	27. ~27~

Elizabeth and I spend the next month between the sheets. The fast, sloppy pace disappears, morphing into slow open-mouthed kisses and hands exploring skin. I imprint Elizabeth’s body into my mind, every scar and freckle, the tattoo on her shoulder, and the other hidden down on her hip. I memorize where to press my lips to get her back to arch off the mattress. We share coffee and cigarettes and movies. Elizabeth reads aloud with my head on her thighs and her fingers woven into my hair. It becomes second nature to be around her. She’s familiar. We mesh, our lives slowly seeping into one another’s.

“You don’t deserve this,” Elizabeth muses, her head resting on my shoulder, my arm wrapped around her waist. It’s been almost a month since she’s spent more than a few minutes in her own apartment.

“Deserve what?”

“To be spending all your time with a broken girl. Because if we’re being honest, that’s what I am. I am tragically broken, some days beyond repair. You deserve someone you don’t have to pick up off the floor weekly. You deserve someone who is happy and carefree and fun.”

We’ve had this conversation before. Maybe not in the exact same words, but the sentiment existed. Whenever we start getting too close, whenever it seems like this might be something, Elizabeth takes a step back. She tries to shove a wedge between us in the only way she knows how. I know we like each other; that much is evident. I think at some point I told her I'm falling in love, but the memory is hazy and only comes to me in blurred clips. If the conversation ever did happen Elizabeth has said nothing. I’m left to assume that being this close to someone else leaves her feeling guilty or confused. There are still emotions left for Gerard. I’m not sure Elizabeth quite knows how to process those and her budding feelings for me at the same time.

“I’m having fun.”

Elizabeth sighs, shifting around so that she can look at me, “You know what I mean, Frank.”

“How about you leave me to decide what I deserve?”

“Sometimes I don’t think you make very good decisions.”

Smiling, I dip down to press a kiss to Elizabeth’s nose. I’m in this for the long haul now. I’m here to be patient, to listen, and hopefully be the person Elizabeth turns to when she needs someone, “But sometimes I do and this is one of those sometimes. Now, shush – ” I gently stroke her hair, getting her to lay her head back on my shoulder “– watch the movie or you’ll miss the best part... again.”

This seems to do the trick. Elizabeth settles back down and for the next hour, nothing else is said. Once the movie is over, Elizabeth and I move to writing. She’s been helping flesh out the album. While I scribble down random ideas, Elizabeth pulls different sounds from her guitar, which has found a permanent residence in my living room. Every once in awhile, I’ll stop, having her play out the same thing in variations. Tonight, we’ve got music on, Elizabeth strumming along with the songs she knows.

The song changes and Elizabeth sets the guitar down beside her. Her knees come up to her chest and her eyes get that far away, dreamy look of a memory. Moving my notebook aside I wait patiently for the story that will inevitably begin to spill from Elizabeth’s lips. I’ve grown accustomed to it now, easily able to detect the signs. Mostly, the stories are something silly Gerard did or some memory of the two together. Those ones get stored away for future reference, so I don’t forget another important date, so I know what to expect. Every once in awhile though, I’ll get one that throws me for a loop, that gives me a glimpse at some other side of Elizabeth that is slowly resurfacing.

“This is our wedding song,” Elizabeth whispers out, her eyes clearing as they focus on me. “Frank, will you dance with me? Don’t say anything, just dance.”

Nodding, I sweep Elizabeth up off the floor, swirling us in small circles through the living room. Despite my instructions to remain quiet, I just can’t. Of all the songs in the world, this would be their wedding song. Non-traditional, just veering on the edgy side, but the sentiment is loud and clear, “Your wedding song would be fucking Aerosmith.”

Elizabeth laughs, resting her chin against my chest, “I thought I said not to talk.”

“Gonna have to shut me up,” I wink back, tongue flicking out over my bottom lip.

I get a grin, Elizabeth eyes rolling as she closes the gap between our lips. As the song continues on, we spin our slow circles, arms wrapped around each other, lips locked together.

~

“Elizabeth and I danced to her wedding song last night,” I announce to Ray when he arrives for band practice.

My friend just nods, settling against the couch as he continues to fiddle with the tuning of his guitar. I hover in the middle of the room, shifting my weight from foot to foot as I wait for him to start explaining how I’m letting things get out of control and not handling the situation as carefully as I should be. Earnest chocolate eyes finally settle on mine as Ray sighs, “How was that?”

“We had sex,” I blurt out, unable to hold it in anymore.

Besides Mikey and Elizabeth, no one knows. I’m not usually one to go around bragging, but this whole situation is so different from anything I’ve been in before. I need to know other people’s opinions. I need to know that what I’m doing is right. Sure, Elizabeth seems completely fine with it, but I’m still worried. There’s so much of Elizabeth that is still a mystery to me.

Ray nods, giving me a smile, “So now we get to the root of what you really want to talk about. When?”

“The first time was maybe a month or so ago. We were both really drunk. Elizabeth initiated it.”

“The first time? This is a reoccurring thing?” My friend arches an eyebrow, setting his guitar aside as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Have you two talked about it?”

I shrug, letting out a defeated sigh as I sink into the carpet, “Kind of. I tried talking about it with her after the first time. She just told me it was fine and we ended up in bed again.”

“So what’s the concern here? And don’t try to tell me nothing, you’re all fidgety.”

Drumming my fingers against the hardwood floor, I let my forehead make contact with the coffee table, “What if – what if this is all a distraction? What if I’m letting my guard down for nothing? What if I’m enjoying all these moments and thinking about what a future with Elizabeth could look like and she’s just bored and sad? What if one day she just decides this isn’t it?”

“Have you told her about – ”

I cut Ray off before the name can come out. After everything happened, we all just kind of stopped saying her name. It made it easier for me. I could pretend it wasn’t someone I knew, someone I cared about. Without the name, I could disconnect from the situation enough to heal. “No. She doesn’t know.”

“I think you should tell her.”

“What does any of that have to do with this?”

Ray sighs, his eyes flicking over to the front door that is now being opened, “All I’m saying is that since everything happened you find reasons to leave. I think all this anxiety about her is a projection. You’re worried. Elizabeth is making you feel things you haven’t let yourself feel in a very long time. Being open with her about what happened, it may help.”

“Frank having girl across the hall problems again?” Shaun grins as he pushes the front door shut behind him.

Flipping my drummer off, I double-check my guitar’s tuning, “Shut the fuck up. I don’t have enough problems with her for you to be saying again.”

“Hey,” Shaun holds his hands up in surrender, “you’re the one having a heart to heart with Toro, not me. Now, are we playing or not?”


	28. ~28~

As time continues on, I find myself in love with Elizabeth. The way she can’t seem to eat ice cream without getting it all over the sides of her fingers. The way she laughs and cries openly. The way she gets lost in her own head, her usually sparkling eyes going cloudy. The way she dances. The way her fingers work against guitar strings. The way she clings to me in her sleep, head buried in my chest. I fall hard, all at once. There is nothing I can do to stop it. I think the feeling has always been there. I think I’ve been falling in love with Elizabeth since the day I met her.

Elizabeth lets me in. When we talk, she really talks. The stories of Gerard take the backburner as Elizabeth shares her inner world. I discover her quirks, the things that make her tick. The way she looks at me changes. What once were shy glances from behind a curtain of hair turn into gazes from under her eyelashes, lusty looks that leave me frozen, my heart beating dangerously fast. Elizabeth shows me her darker side and I wrap it around me like a blanket to keep out the cold. She’s dangerous and sultry with the biggest heart and a smile worth killing for. Elizabeth floats through life not even realizing how devastating gorgeous she really is.

It’s a Tuesday when I first voice the feelings out loud. Ray is over to discuss some of the details of the new album. Elizabeth flies into the apartment, a shoe held in one fist, her eyes wide and frantic. She dives into an elaborate story of leaving a window open and coming home to a massive spider on the wall. Gerard always killed the spiders. Elizabeth is terrified of them. I guess when she went to smack the thing with her shoe it jumped.

I hate spiders. They’re the one thing in the world that really, truly terrifies me. They’ve got too many legs and eyes and they’re all fuzzy. No thanks. When Elizabeth shakily hands over her shoe, I know I have no choice. I’m the guy. This kind of thing is my job.

Elizabeth hides behind me as I march into the apartment. She directs me toward the bedroom and I realize this is the first time I’m seeing the room. Draped in rich purple, it contains all the usual bedroom furniture, wrought iron bed pushed under the window, black wood dresser with little flowers carved into it, and a heavy-looking gold mirror balanced on the wall next to the closet. Much like the rest of the apartment, it screams modern gothic.

I see the thing right away, perched on the window ledge. Taking in a deep breath, I swing the shoe through the air, clapping it over the spider’s body. Elizabeth squeaks, jumping back away from me. Lifting the shoe, I flip it around to see the bottom. The spider's mangled body stares up at me. Gently, I tap Elizabeth’s shoulder, showing her. Once she’s satisfied, she nods, giving me a quick hug.

“So what’d you do man?” Ray questions once I’ve returned to my apartment.

“I went over and I killed the spider. I was fucking terrified, but that look on her face when I showed her its squished body was worth it. I’m pretty sure that’s love; killing the spiders, dropping off coffee, using the same step-stool that she could use to get the towels off the top shelf.”

Ray nods, “So you’re sure you love her?”

“Yeah.” It comes out with no hesitation, no second-guessing. I know. I am in love with the girl across the hall. The girl with the sad eyes and hauntingly beautiful smile. 212. I love Elizabeth Way.

Ray gives me a small smile, his eyes shining, “Does she love you back?”

“I don’t know. I don’t expect her to. If she came across the hall right now and said it I’d tell her it was too early.”

“Have you done the thing where she sits in the bath and you sit on the other side of the curtain?”

“Yeah, like the second time I was over. What does that have to do with anything?”

“If she tells you she loves you, be it today or tomorrow or a year from now, don’t tell her she’s not ready. A girl like that, with what she’s been through, she knows when she’s in love.”

~

Elizabeth and I have taken up the habit of walking through Central Park. She likes to show me the places Gerard and her used to hang out, the hot dog stand her dad used to take her to on Sundays, the first tree she ever climbed. The whole park is one memory after another. Elizabeth’s eyes light up as she recalls some small detail about something or other.

In return, I give her childhood memories from Jersey. It’s wild to me that Gerard and I lived less than thirty minutes away from each other and never met. I try to picture him roaming the halls of my high school; who he’d have been friends with. I feed Elizabeth stories of Ray and I cutting class to go to concerts or smoke in the bathrooms. She never asks about other friends. She skirts around the questions I don’t want to ask with unnatural grace. Maybe she’s starting to guess. Maybe those are questions she just doesn’t want the answers to. Either way, we’re able to share stories from our past without treading into dangerous territory.

I want to tell her. I want her to know why I am the way I am, how my past experiences in relationships have shaped me. I'm just not sure how. I don't want it to come across as if I'm just information dumping. Jams was too important to just be slid into casual conversation. I want to introduce them, explain what she meant to me, what she still means to me. I want Elizabeth to be ready. She'll understand, that much I'm sure of. I'm just not sure if enough time has passed in order for it not to send her into a tailspin of negative emotions. 

Tonight Elizabeth veers off our usual path, winding her way down quaint looking streets. Two perfect rows of old brick homes, the road lined with trees just coming into bloom. Elizabeth stops in front of one of the homes. It’s more modern than the rest, the rustic brick façade torn away to smooth sandstone. Glass windows show into a pleasant-looking living room. It looks like there might be a small garden attached to the side, but it’s hard to tell through the vines creeping over the wrought iron fencing.

“Gerard and I were saving up for a house over here,” Elizabeth says dreamily, her head coming to rest on my shoulder.

Instinctively, I curl my arm around her, “I could see you two here. A cat sitting in the big front window, little Gerard running around the side yard, you two sharing coffee on the porch.”

“Gerard and I didn’t want kids,” Elizabeth answers back as if out of habit. There’s no real emotion behind the words. I’ve seen her around Mikey’s kid. Elizabeth takes to parenting like a duck to water. She’s patient and has no issue making a fool of herself to get a laugh. Elizabeth lights up around the baby. It’s an amazing transformation to watch, it's like all walls come down and the only thing that matters is that tiny human on her hip.

“Gerard might not have wanted kids, but you do.”

Elizabeth frowns, tugging away from me, “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” I circle her face with my finger, “You’re bad at hiding your facial expressions.”

The redhead rolls her eyes, shoving me playfully off the curb, “Maybe we just spend too much time around each other.”

“That’s definitely not it,” Coming up behind Elizabeth, I wrap my arms around her waist, pressing my lips just under her ear. She hums, leaning into me. I love how comfortable Elizabeth has become with physical touch. There’s no more jerking away or embarrassed blushing. Instead, she melts into me, often initiating the contact herself, “Come on, we gotta get to the bar. I’ve got a show to play.”


	29. ~29~

I start going to more of Frank’s shows, following the band up and down the east coast. It took some digging, but I found an old Canon in Gerard’s things and now use that to take shots of the band performing. In the beginning, most of the pictures looked grainy and jerky, the flashing stage lights creating weird shadows and flashbacks. By about week five, I learn how to and when to let my fingers play over the shutter button. The once blurry images now come out crisp and clear, capturing the on-stage moments in permanent memories.

“I look like a dad in that one,” Frank chuckles, leaning over my shoulder to look at some of the pictures I took last show.

“I like it.”

One of my favorite things to do is take backstage pictures. As the guys go through warm-ups or preshow rituals, I snap away. Mostly it’s candid shots, but sometimes one of the guys will catch me. Their playful sides come out, fueled by adrenaline and beer. I’ve gotten dozens of pictures of the guys pulling ridiculous faces or outlandish poses.

It’s a Thursday. Frank’s band playing some hole in the wall venue in New Jersey. I wasn’t even supposed to be at the show. Mikey and I were meant to meet for dinner. He canceled at the last second and I went flying towards the state boarded, arriving just as the first song was ending. Our eyes met instantly, Frank’s dancing in the harsh stage lights. It is a simple movement, the slide of his hand down the mic stand, the sharp inhale of a screaming breath. It's the way he looks at me under his eyelashes, the way his tongue flicks out against his bottom lip. The little wink he gives me as his fingertips brush against mine.

My heart beats out of rhythm, throwing itself into my mouth. It’s that feeling when the roller coaster tips over the edge and you’re sent plummeting back towards Earth. I love him. I love Frank Iero. The feeling hits me like a ton of bricks and suddenly the room feels too small, the bodies bumping into me feel threatening and hot like fire. My stomach lurches as if to throw up the dinner I never ate. I spend the rest of the night trying to rationalize the thoughts, try to turn them into something that isn’t the truth. The ride home is silent. As the noises of some house party float across from Frank’s apartment, I lay awake, the guilt eating me alive.

To like Frank, to flirt with him, to be physical with him, I could deal with all of that. I could bury that guilt, working through the feelings, finding a way to reason that Gerard would be okay with it. To love Frank, to give him a part of me I gave Gerard, that’s completely different. I can’t explain that one away. I can’t pretend away Gerard’s anger. He’d be devastated. I promised him I’d always love him. Loving Frank feels like breaking that promise.

Unable to deal with the whirlwind of emotions now wreaking havoc, I call Mikey. He sounds tired, the baby crying in the background. Despite the sleep in his voice, Gerard’s brother agrees to make the trip into the city.

“You love him, don’t you?” Mikey lets himself in, sinking into bed next to me.

I let out a sigh of relief. Mikey knows. He always knows. Taking his hand, I begin to weave his fingers through mine, “I’m scared, Mikey. I’m scared to let him in. I’m scared to open up like that, to feel those feelings.”

“Oh, Liz,” Mikey wraps his arm around me, pulling me to his chest. “It’s been almost two years. Maybe for some people, it’d be too early, but I think you know your heart. Gerard would want you to be happy. He wouldn’t want you to stop your life. If you love Frank, then love Frank. Let him make you smile and take you on stupid dates and write sappy love songs about you. You don’t have to turn around and marry him, Liz, but you can let him be there.”

“What if I forget him?”

Mikey reaches a hand between us, pulling the chain out from under my shirt. Two rings hang there, glittering in the lamplight pouring in the window. “You’ll never forget him. He’ll always be there. He’ll be the leaves dancing in the wind and the flowers growing between the cracks in the sidewalk. He’ll be your first cigarette in the morning and the last before you go to bed. He’s in your heart, but you’ve got such a big heart. I think there’s room in there for Frank too.”

“You think?”

“Does he make you feel special? Does he make you laugh? Does he know how to cheer you up on a bad day? Does he feel like home?”

I nod.

“Then I think there’s room.”

“Hey Mikey,” he hums back in response. “Will you stay?”

Mikey squeezes my hand, taking away all my fears with his touch. He thinks it’s okay. The person who was closest to Gerard grew up in the same bedroom, says his brother would want this. Sure, I spent years of my life with Gerard, but Mikey always knew him best. They shared this special bond. Gerard could walk into the room and Mikey would instantly know if something was bothering him or if he had some piece of news to share. Gerard didn’t have to talk to Mikey, Mikey just knew. In the early days, I relied on Mikey’s advice to get through a few rough patches. Everything Gerard’s brother said worked. Him telling me it’s okay to love Frank makes it feel better. It helps ebb the guilt.

“Yeah. Let me just text Kristin.”

“Tell her I’m sorry.”

Mikey shoots off a text, rolling back over. He presses a kiss to my forehead, pulling the blankets up over us, “There’s nothing to apologize for, Liz. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

~

I treat Mikey to breakfast. It’s just diner food, but he smiles and laughs and a little bit of color comes back to his cheeks. Mikey jokes around with Ray and Frank, talking excitedly about new things the band has planned. While not a member, Frank includes Mikey in a lot of financial decisions. Mikey has always been good with numbers. He explains what the percentages come out to in monetary value, how much of the money should go back into the band, how much should be used as a kind of salary. Usually, the record company sends over spreadsheets with all the information, but Frank and Ray like to look it over with Mikey. I’m glad Gerard’s brother is able to have a little bit of a hobby away from his usual work and home life. I think it’s good for him, reminds him what it’s like to be a normal person.

“Do we have enough extra to do it?”

Beside me, Mikey shrugs, “Yeah, you’ll have enough. You gotta check with the record label though. I don’t know if that’s something in your contract or not.”

“What are you scheming over there?” I give Frank a playful wink. There’s been a lot of hushed whispering amongst the band lately. I know they’re planning something. Apparently I haven’t made the shortlist of people allowed to know.

Frank reaches across the table, capturing my hand between his, “You’ll see. Nothing bad.”

“Fine, keep your secrets.”

Ray chuckles, shooting a glance over at Frank, “It’s more a surprise than a secret. He’s trying to be sweet.”

“Ray,” Frank gently slaps his friend in the shoulder, beginning to laugh, “You’re painting me as a pansy.”

It’s Mikey’s turn to laugh, his hand slapping against the tabletop as he goes to leave, “You are a pansy, just accept it.”

“The sexiest damn pansy you’ve ever seen, Way.”

Gerard’s brother shakes his head, pointing a finger toward Frank, “In your dreams, Iero.” He leans over; giving me a hug, “See you around, Liz. Keep these two in line.”

I give Mikey a salute, “As best I can.”

As Gerard’s brother disappears into the street, I turn to Ray and Frank, “Alright, so what’s the real scheme?”

“She’s too damn smart, dude, I told you she was gonna figure it out,” Ray nudges Frank, flicking his gaze between the two of us.

Frank just sighs, giving me a nonchalant shrug; “We want to bring Mikey on full time as a crew member. He fucking hates that desk job. We’ve got the money to pay him more than he’s making now.”

“What’s the catch?”

Both Frank and Ray frown and the look in their eyes tell me they already know it’s a deal-breaker, “He’d have to tour with us.”


	30. ~30~

“Could he bring his family?” I continue to pester Frank as we walk back from the diner.

Frank just shrugs, giving me another sad frown, “If he could pay their way. The label is willing to give us some wiggle room in the budget since we’re new to this, but not that much. Plus, is he even going to want the baby traveling?”

“Kristin said they were planning on going to Disney this summer with the baby.”

“That’s Disney, not bars and people’s garages.”

I stop in the hall, lounging against Frank’s front door so he can’t escape the conversation, “Why are you shooting this down before you even know his answer?”

“Because it’s a pipe dream, Elizabeth. Now, can I please get into my apartment?”

Giving him a playful smile, I shake my head, “What’s the password?”

“Seriously?” Frank arches an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest as he shifts all his weight to one foot.

I shrug, waggling my own eyebrows at him, “Those are the rules. Sorry.”

“What if I – ” Frank lunges forward, sweeping me off my feet and slinging me over his shoulder.

Squealing, I begin to lightly beat my palms against his sweatpants covered butt. Frank laughs, trying to jerk away from my assault without fully dropping me. We end up in his bedroom, Frank hovering over me as his fingers work against my ribcage. I let out squeaks, trying to get away from him as he continues to tickle me.

“How’s that for a password, huh?” Frank stops tickling me, resting his weight on his forearms.

Staring up at him, I pant, trying to get my heart rate back to something that resembles normal. Smirking, I snake an arm around his back, tangling my fingers in his hair, “Sorry, that’s not it.”

Frank gives me a devilish grin, nuzzling his nose against the sweet spot just under my ear. His fingers are already working to pop the button on my jeans.

~

After some coaxing from Frank, lots of puppy dog eyes from Ray, and Shaun threatening to set up his drums in my living room, I take up the challenge of trying to milk Mikey of any information pertaining to if he’d be willing to leave his job. Short of outright asking, I get little comments about wishing the hours were better or that the pay was higher. There’s no definitive, no solid answer to bring back to Frank and the guys.

“Why are you suddenly so interested in my job?” Mikey questions handing over a glass of wine as he joins me on his couch.

I take a big sip, pulling it through my teeth as I try and come up with some kind of logical answer. Mikey’s quick on the draw and one wrong step could lead him to exactly what Frank’s surprise is, “I don’t know. I’ve not been super happy with my job recently, thinking about maybe doing something different.”

“Can you handle a few months of no pay right now?”

“Yeah.” Please don’t ask to go over my financials. Please don’t ask –

“Why don’t we go through your statements?” Shit. Fuck me. “I’ll go grab my laptop.”

“Uh – we don’t have to do that. It’s your day off, Mikey, you really don’t have to.”

Mikey returns from his home office, laptop in tow, “It’s really not a big deal. Financial planning is the part of my job I actually enjoy.”

As I log in, I desperately try and come up with a reason to pull five thousand dollars out of my bank account. So far, I’ve avoided the Rylie topic with Mikey. He’s accepted that I found a way to get him out of my life. There’s no way he won’t have something to say about me paying the guy off. None of my bills are that big. The rent payment just came out so I can’t even say I paid in advance. As Mikey’s eyes continue to scan down the page, my heart thunders in my ears.

“Liz,” the laptop lid tilts down as Mikey shifts to look at me, “I think someone may have gotten your card information. Did you pull out five thousand dollars?”

Every possible explanation, every excuse gets trapped in my throat, building up to a burning ball that I can’t swallow down. I’m left to blink back at Mikey, my mouth hanging open.

“It’s not a big deal. I’ll just call the bank; explain it wasn’t you. I know it seems like a lot of money, but you’ll get it all back.”

“Um – ” shaking fingers work against my eyes as I try to pull air into tightening lungs. “It’s not fraudulent.”

“What?”

“The withdrawal – no one stole my card. I took it out.”

Mikey lifts the laptop lid again, searching through the rest of the statement, “For what?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Did you get in a wreck? Did new bills come up? Everything with Gerard’s funeral should be taken care of. Did they come back and ask for more money? You aren’t still paying that P.I. are you?”

I let my face make contact with my hands, fingers tugging at the roots of my hair. The only way I’m getting out of this is by telling the truth, “No. I did not get into an accident. The funeral home is not asking for more money. I stopped paying the P.I. almost a year ago.”

“So then what happened?” Mikey brushes his fingers over my elbow, trying to get me to look up at him. “If you’re in some kind of trouble we can figure it out.”

Sighing, I lift my head, “No, Mikey, I’m not in any trouble, not anymore anyway.”

“But you were?”

“Yes.”

“And the five thousand got you out of that trouble?”

“Yes.”

Mikey closes his eyes, lips pursed together as his fingers rub circles into his temples, “What kind of trouble, Liz?”

“Mikey, please I don’t –”

His hand comes down hard against the soft blue cotton of the couch, “Dammit, Liz. What the fuck did you do?”

“He found Frank and I didn’t know what else to do, okay?” Tears spill down my cheeks, creating dark circles on my pants. “I asked him to name a price. I just wanted him gone. Five thousand dollars did that.”

“So what, you’re just going around paying people off now? What the hell did you get yourself into?”

Mikey usually isn’t one to pry. Sure, he’s protective and a little demanding at times, but he knows when to drop things. I don’t understand why now of all times he’s choosing to take a deep dive into my personal life, “Why do you even care so much? It’s my money.”

“Money you got because my brother died.”

My heart skips a beat, the world coming at me in pulses, slow and just off steady. Never has Mikey thrown Gerard’s death in my face. We’ve bickered about our different ways of healing, but not like this, never like this, “Money I got because Gerard and I paid for life insurance plans. Money I got because I work. Look, I had a problem, I solved it.”

“Who? Who the hell did you pay five thousand dollars, Liz?”

There’s a pause, just long enough for me to let the weight of my next word wash over me. Just long enough to know that there will be no words of comfort. This time Mikey is going to hate me. This time, I really deserve it, “Rylie.”


	31. ~31~

“Ma!” I kick the front screen door open, drumming against the front hallway wall as I slip out of my shoes. “I’m home!”

There’s shuffling around in the kitchen, my mom wandering out a few seconds later. There’s flour dusted across her nose and sprinkled down the faded pink and green apron protecting her clothes. Ma greets me with open arms, curling me into a hug as her lips meet both my cheeks. “You said seven. It’s almost eight.”

“I know Ma, I know,” reaching down I scratch behind our family dog’s ears, accepting the licks I get as thanks. “I underestimated the traffic out of the city. What’re you cooking?”

“Lasagna.” Ma moves us into the kitchen, depositing me at the table tucked under the front window. “You know, you wouldn’t have to worry about the city traffic if you moved back home. We don’t see you enough, Frankie.”

Chuckling, I toe open the window, sliding my pack of cigarettes from my front pocket. As mom continues to fuss about how I live so far away and how the air pollution in the city is going to kill me and how I look like I’ve lost weight, I blow little smoke rings toward the ceiling.

“Frankie!” The dishtowel gets me across the back of the head. “You’re – Jesus – ” Ma crosses herself, kissing her knuckles before gesturing them toward the ceiling. “– I thought you quit smoking.”

“No Ma, I’ve never quit smoking. Stop worrying about me, you’ll give yourself a heart attack.”

She just shakes her head at me, donning a pair of stained oven mitts so she can slide the pan of lasagna out of the oven, “You said you had something to tell me.”

“Oh yeah,” Getting up from the table I pull plates down from the cabinet by the fridge. I love coming home; nothing has changed since I’ve been in high school. It feels like falling into the past, into happier times when life wasn’t so fast-paced and complicated. “The band got signed to a label. We’re going into the recording studio pretty soon.”

Ma sits down at the table, bowing her head and saying a prayer under her breath. Her head pops up a few seconds later and she gestures at my plate, “I’m very proud of you, Frankie. You were always such a talented boy. Now, tell me more about this girl of yours.”

~

I’ve not even been home for an hour when Mikey flies into my apartment, the door jumping in its frame as he throws it shut. His face is red, usually neatly kept hair flying out all around his face. His chest heaves as he leans against the kitchen counter, “Have you ever asked her about the early days of their marriage? About the divorce everyone thought was coming? Have you asked her about Rylie?”

“I don’t really see how that’s any of my business.”

Since meeting Mikey, I’ve seen how protective he is of Elizabeth. I’ve listened to his rambles about her past and his cryptic mentioning of some other guy. I always just brushed it off. I took it as Mikey trying to look out for his brother’s wife. Here I was some new guy taking up all her time; he had a right to be nervous. As time passed, I was hoping the trust between us would grow. I kept hoping he’d leave the cryptic bullshit behind. I guess some things never change.

“You should know who you’re dealing with. Elizabeth isn’t this perfect girl next door. She’s got enough skeletons in her closet to start a cemetery. Gerard and her were screwed up.”

I want to know. I want the answers to the convoluted gibberish that Mikey spouts. Elizabeth has promised me answers. She just needs time. I’m sure she’s worried that if she dumps too much on me too fast, I’ll run. Even with reassurance, she’s elusive, unwilling to give away too much. I know I could ask Mikey. He’d tell me everything. It just feels wrong. It feels wrong to go in and ask questions I’ve been prompted to bring up. That isn’t how any kind of relationship works. You don’t get to play spy and go to that person’s friends for information. I don’t care how much Mikey pushes, I’m going to give Elizabeth the time she needs.

“I appreciate you trying to look out for me, but I don’t need this. I’m sure whatever it is you think Elizabeth is entitled to tell me will come out eventually.”

Mikey lets his fist make contact with the wall, letting out a defeated sigh, “If you don’t ask, you’ll never know. She’s not going to openly bad mouth my brother. Elizabeth’s little talent, loyal to a T.”

He slams back out of the apartment, leaving me to stand numbly in the middle of my living room. For about an hour, I think nothing, the world just spinning around me. By two o’clock that familiar itch of curiosity begins to creep in. I pace back and forth through the apartment, chewing my nails to stubs. Asking will start a fight. The second I mention Mikey’s name she’ll put her walls up. There’s no way I can bring it up without mentioning Gerard’s brother. He’s the only way I’d know to even ask the questions.

At four I hear Elizabeth’s apartment door open. With fingers curled around the doorknob, I try and fight the itch that has now morphed into a constant throbbing. Will Elizabeth really keep stringing me along with the hope of information with no real intention of delivery? The coppery, rich taste of blood pulls me back to reality.

As six o’clock rolls around, the need to know what all the secrets are about is at painful levels. It’s all I can think about. Who is Rylie? What is Elizabeth so desperate to keep hidden? Unable to sit and bite my tongue any longer, I let my knuckles hit just below the number plate on Elizabeth’s door.

“Hey,” Elizabeth smiles brightly, ushering me inside the apartment.

Coughing, I scratch at the skin of my neck as I shift my weight from foot to foot. There is no outcome from this conversation that doesn’t end in a fight. Taking in a shaky breath, I let it out in a huff. “Did Gerard or you know someone named Rylie?”

“Where did you hear that name?”

I hold my hands up by my shoulders, trying to show that these questions aren’t supposed to be a threat, “Look, Mikey just said – ”

“Mikey,” Elizabeth scoffs, shaking her head as her teeth sink into her bottom lip. “Of course Mikey has something to do with this. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Mikey said to ask. Said Gerard and you have history with him.”

“Of course he did. I’m telling you I don’t want to talk about it.”

“He said something about a Rylie. Usually, I’d let it go but I remember that name from those calls you were getting.”

Elizabeth goes ghost white, jerking to a halt, “I’d like you to leave.”

“Eli –”

“I said leave! My relationship with Gerard is none of your business.”

I knew this would happen. It was an attack the second I stepped into the apartment. Elizabeth put up her walls and placed me firmly outside them. Despite this, my temper flares. What is so bad that she isn’t willing to share? I get relationships can be sloppy. I’m not here to judge whatever the hell happened. I just don’t want to feel like I’m in the dark anymore. I don’t want all this whispering and the pointed glances. Elizabeth has let me in; I’m tired of letting her pick and choose what rooms I’m allowed to explore.

“You seem more than happy to make it my business when you wanna share how doting of a husband he was.”

“Get the fuck out!” Elizabeth rips the apartment door open. “Now!”


	32. ~32~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is for you, Capesi92

Frank is already there when I arrive. He’s sitting in front of Gerard’s grave, a single orchid in his hand. “Your wife is amazing. She’s real strong and so fucking stubborn. I never mean to bring up bad memories. I just thought it’d help me get a better picture of you two. Mikey kept saying all this cryptic shit. I just wanted to know. Now she won’t talk to me.”

“I hope you know I’m not trying to take your place. From the way Elizabeth talks those shoes you left behind are way too big for me to fill. I guess what I’m trying to say is I know I can’t replace you I just – when Jams died I kept hoping that there was someone up there to be her friend, to keep her safe until I’m ready to join her. I guess maybe I can do that for Elizabeth. I can watch out for her, keep her safe until it’s her time to be with you again. Maybe you can do that for me, with Jams.”

“Why are you here?”

Frank jumps, dropping the flower, “Why are you here?”

“This is my husband’s grave. I have every right to be here, unlike you. You don’t even know him.”

“You wouldn’t talk to me. I thought maybe he would.”

“Who’s Jams?”

“Who’s Rylie?”

“I asked first.”

Frank let’s out a defeated sigh, “If I tell you, will you tell me about Rylie?”

“Maybe.”

“Elizabeth,” Frank whines back.

“It’s all I can give you right now.”

Frank lets out a sigh, patting the patch of grass next to him, “Jamia was my girlfriend in high school. We just clicked. We had plans to go to college together and get married and be in a band together. She was it. She was the first girl I ever loved. And then she got sick. The doctors did everything they could she just wasn’t responding to treatment. She died three days after the start of our senior year. I didn't think I would ever feel that way about anyone else. After she died I shut down. I stopped getting close to people. If it wasn't her I didn't want it. It took me a long time to function again, too long. I still miss her every day.”

“I’m so sorry,” I curl an arm around Frank’s shoulders. “Why did you never tell me?”

He just shakes his head, rubbing at eyes brimming with tears. The colors catch the light, all melted together like a child’s crayon art, “It was a long time ago. We were working through your stuff. In my head we were going to be visiting Gerard and I’d ask if I could introduce you to a friend and tell you then. I didn’t ever want it to be something I was unloading on you.”

“You’re never just unloading things on me. I care about your life, the things that happen to you.”

Frank nods, accepting the kiss I press to his lips. He tilts his head, connecting our foreheads. His eyelashes tickle as he continues to blink away tears, “Elizabeth, who is Rylie?”

“A mistake.”

“Okay. What was he before he became a mistake?”

Shaking my head, I pull away from Frank, laying a hand against the smooth marble of Gerard’s headstone, “We met him in art school. Rylie was Gerard’s drinking buddy, back before the drinking got out of hand. Rylie’s got lots of money and doesn’t mind throwing it around on whatever takes his fancy. Well, it was Gerard, who piqued his interest. They dated for a little before Gerard and I. Rylie just kind of became our third. The three of us did everything together.”

“What happened?”

“Um, Gerard and I got married. Things were good for about six months. The drinking started again. I asked him if he was seeing Rylie, but he denied it. I had a friend of Mikey’s follow Gerard around. He was seeing Rylie. They were sleeping together, drinking, doing drugs. When I confronted Gerard about it, he said I could either let Rylie into our marriage or he was going to leave. I was stupid enough to say yes. We were all together for about a year and a half. Gerard got clean and Rylie fucked off to run whatever business his daddy decided to give him.”

Frank nods, chewing at his bottom lip. His fingers play through the grass, picking pieces and letting them float away in the wind, “So why was he back?”

I let out a heavy breath, sitting on my hands to stop them from shaking. The fear of not knowing how Frank will react to what happened eats at me. He could decide to walk away from this. We’re in this too deep for something like that to not hurt. I don’t want to see the pain wash over his smiling face. I don’t want to see the look of betrayal flash in his eyes.

“Um, he called during those two months we weren’t talking. I was so depressed and so alone and so I went over. We fooled around and then I woke up and realized I made a terrible mistake.”

Frank’s hand finds mine, calloused fingertips brushing over my knuckles. He tucks a finger under my chin, tilting my head up so that I have no choice but to look at him. His eyes are still watery, the blues and greens bleeding into hazel browns. Frank just looks sad, “He knew, that Gerard was dead?”

“Yeah.”

“What a complete asshole. What kind of a guy sleeps with their dead best friend’s wife? Did he hurt you? Is he still bothering you? I can make a few phone calls. We can get rid of him.”

“Frank,” I cup his cheek in my palm, stroking the smooth skin there, “Frank, I took care of it. That’s probably why Mikey went to you. He was pissed at me for how I handled the situation. He wanted me to hurt.”

“No, that’s crap. I wouldn’t care if you told me you killed someone. This Rylie guy sounds like an entitled piece of shit.”

Sighing, I lean back against the headstone, “Frank, I spent a month doing coke in his penthouse. He wanted what I owed him in whatever form of payment I was willing to offer. I paid him five thousand dollars to leave me and everyone I care about alone. Mikey has a right to be upset. I gave in, just like I always do.”

“He was at my work.” Frank’s eyes grow wide, lips hanging open. “The blonde guy who gave me his number, that was Rylie.”

I nod, “Yeah. You also introduced us at your signing party.”

“Fuck off. That was him? Shit.”

Frank laughs. He’s actually laughing. All my fear drains away. Leaning my head against his shoulder, I join in. A weight's been lifted. There are no more walls. The secrets we’ve both been keeping are out. It feels right.

“I’m sorry I kicked you out of the apartment. I just – I didn’t want it to come out like this.”

“Are you – you’ve stopped doing coke right?”

I let another laugh spill out, “Yeah. I guess I just wanted to understand what drew Gerard to it. I didn’t really like it.”

Fingers run through my hair, “ Good. I’m sorry I let Mikey put things in my head. We still cool?”

“Willing to pay for Dairy Queen?”

Frank chuckles pressing his lips to the top of my head, “Yeah, I guess I can do that.”

“Then we’re cool.”

"Can you do something for me?"

I nod as Frank helps me up off the ground. We wander further into the cemetery, veering off the gravel path and winding our way through the headstones, "Anything you want."

"Elizabeth," we stop in front of a small white stone, Frank rocking back and forth on his feet, one hand shoved deep in his pants pocket, "meet Jams."

Smiling down at the headstone, I brush my fingers over the smooth stone. Her birth and death date are carved at the bottom, sitting under an engraved picture of her. The words, gone but never forgotten, follow the half-circle along the top of the stone, "Nice to meet you, Jams. Thank you for helping to shape Frank into the guy he is today. He's way too good for this world."

For a long while, we just stand there, arms wrapped around each other, silent tears spilling down our faces. Everything has been brought into the light and we’re still us. This still feels normal. In the quiet moments of reflection I feel closer to Frank than I ever have. I'm lucky to have him in my life. 

“Hey, Elizabeth,” Frank wraps his arm around my shoulders as we walk back toward the parking lot, “Next time, just tell me. Whatever it is, no matter how crazy, we’ll handle it together. Don’t go giving any more men five thousand dollars.”

I gently shove Frank, rolling my eyes as I open my car door, “You’re just upset because it wasn’t you getting the money.”

“Naw,” Frank sticks his tongue out, giving me a wink, “I’m not in it for the money. You want to usual?”

Giving Frank a thumbs, up, I start the car, rolling down my window, “Meet you on your couch?”

“We can start there.”


	33. ~33~

Dropping my spoon into the melting remains of my blizzard, I curl my legs up to my chest, studying Frank. His tongue glides along the smooth red plastic of his spoon, trying to get the drops that run down the handle. “Why were you so cool about the whole thing with Rylie?”

“Guess I just figured it wasn’t my situation,” Frank gives up on savoring the last bit of his ice cream, discarding the cup on the coffee table. “I don’t get to judge how you handled it. I do wish you had come to me first though.”

I let out a snort, “What? So you could call in your hitman from New Jersey?”

“No,” Frank tosses one of the throw pillows at me, “so we could’ve come up with a better solution than you handing over five thousand dollars.”

I trace the leaf pattern adorning the pillow, “It had to happen the way it did. Rylie gets what he wants by any means possible. He wanted you, Frank. I wasn’t gonna let that happen.”

“I wasn’t gonna – ”

Frank doesn’t know Rylie. He came out of the womb with a silver spoon. What he couldn’t buy he charmed or tricked. Once Rylie’s got his sights set on something, there’s very little you can do to get him to back down. I won’t feel bad about my decision. I’m not missing the money, not really anyway. What I would have missed, is Frank. I know Rylie. The only way I would’ve gotten Frank back is to join. I refuse to get wrapped up in that again. Rylie needed to disappear; I found a way to make that happen. Nothing seduces a businessman quite like money.

“Maybe not with Rylie, but you would’ve slept with John.”

His eyebrows squish together as he blinks back at me. His fingers work against the tattoo on his neck and I know he’s taking time to really consider, “I didn’t know him.”

“But he was your type, right? Maybe if he stuck around, started coming to your shows – ” I trail off, giving Frank a pointed look. It’s not that I think he’s naïve. I just think that Frank has never dealt with anyone quite like Rylie. One way or another, he would’ve got sucked in.

Frank sighs, “Yeah. He was my type.”

“Rylie is tricky. He’s a master manipulator. He can and will be whatever you need, at least until you're in too far to walk away. I did what I had to do.”

“You didn’t need to protect me.”

Sighing, I stand, “I’m sorry my life isn’t the perfect, happy family picture I painted.”

“I never needed it to be perfect,” Frank catches my hand, “I just want you to be you. I want –” He shakes his head, teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

“I gotta go talk to Mikey,” Clapping Frank on the back, I slip out the apartment door.

~

An hour later, I’m sat across from Mikey. The afternoon sunlight filters in through his front window, painting half his face a brilliant honey gold. The blue flecks in his eyes glimmer, making his look old and tired. He just sits there, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm as he looks through me, coffee cup hanging from his lips.

“Are you happy? Do you feel like you won? Was it everything you ever wanted?” Mikey just continues to blink back at me, the picture of apathy. Frustrated, I throw one of the baby toys littering the floor at him. “Answer me!”

The coffee cup falls from Mikey’s hand, dark brown liquid coating the front of his tank top. Aside from the corner of his lips tugging down in a discontent grimace, I get nothing.

“So that’s it? You just aren’t gonna talk to me anymore? It didn’t work out the way you wanted so now you’ve got nothing to say. What did you think he was going to do? Huh? Did you want him to walk out of my life?” I let out a scoff. “Can’t be happy unless Elizabeth is a sobbing idiot who can’t take care of herself.”

Mikey’s fist comes down hard against the arm of the sofa, “Shut up. Just shut up. I stood over my brother’s casket and promised him I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. I told him I’d look out for you; make sure you didn’t fall off the deep end. You just took that promise and pissed it away.”

“I am not some promise, Michael. I’m a fucking person who makes mistakes and fucks up and pays an ex money to go away. You know who would’ve understood that? Gerard. Gerard watched me fall on my ass a million times and I guarantee it hurt like hell for him to have to stand there and watch me fix myself. But ya know what, he did. He stood there and offered support and told me he was proud of me for figuring it out even if it wasn’t the way he would’ve done it. So you can take your stupid fucking promise and shove it up your ass. It never meant a goddamn thing.”

He shakes his head, jaw squared, “What did he say?”

“He said he wishes I would’ve come to him first, but he gets it. He wasn’t mad. He didn’t yell. He just said that it wasn’t his life so it wasn’t his decision. Looks like the asshole with the hungry eyes is more mature than you thought.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what, Mikey? Tell the truth? Tell you that some guy who lives across the hall understands I’m an adult? Let you know that Frank is able to handle the situation a million times better than you?” Standing, I head for the front door. “I hope you got what you wanted. Whatever this tantrum was, I hope it was worth it. Tell Kristin that I’ll babysit tomorrow night, but after that she’s gonna have to find a new sitter.”

As I go to pull the door open, Mikey curls a hand over my shoulder, “You don’t have to do this.”

“You didn’t really give me too many other options, Mikes. Get your shit together. This anger you’re holding onto, it’s not going to get you anywhere.”

I don’t want to lose Mikey. He’s been there for me through too much to just throw our friendship away. I don’t like this version of him though. He’s petty and there’s this rage that’s burning him alive. Despite that, I still have hope for him. Gerard’s kid brother is in there somewhere; he just needs to find himself again.

“Look, I’m going to northern Jersey with Frank and the band for their recording. We’ll be gone for about a month. When I get back, if you’ve done some soul searching, maybe we can meet up for breakfast.”

Mikey’s hand slips from my shoulder, “I’m sorry, Liz.”

“Maybe one day I’ll believe you.”

~

Frank and Ray quit their job on Monday. By Wednesday we’re tucked into a backyard shed converted into a studio. Most of the lower level is filled with recording equipment and something that looks like it’s supposed to be a kitchen. The loft area has two twin mattresses shoved together, a ratty couch, and a television with a crack running through the screen. I guess it’s some friend of Shaun’s. The guy’s supposed to be a top producer in the alternative scene though, so the label agreed to let the band record here. Everyone’s kind of playing it by ear, holding onto a ‘we’ll see what happens’ attitude. I think the guys are just thrilled to finally be recording.

Not having all that much to do while the guys are actually working on the album, I become a sort of den mom. I run to the grocery and liquor stores. I do most of the cleaning; ensuring the garbage gets taken out and the cigarette butts end up in the ashtrays. I also use the time to take photos and videos of the band during the recording process. One day they’ll be glad they’ve got pictures commiserating the debut album.

In the early hours of the morning, between endless time in the sound booth and sleep, we turn all the lights out, blasting music. A bowl makes its way through our little circle, laughter quickly filling the space. The LED rope lights around the shed cast a deep green over everything, making Frank’s eyes dance as he crawls across the room toward me. We sit on the floor, palms pressed together, smiling like fools, dancing to the music.

It gets harder to keep my feelings to myself. Sometimes sitting out in the yard smoking a cigarette or sharing a cup of coffee before anyone else is up or watching movies on his phone screen it almost slips out. How easy it would be to just let those three little words spill from me. Just a whisper, half-hidden by patchwork quilts and sleepy eyes. And his cheeks would burn red, the color sliding over the tops of his ears. His eyelashes would flutter and he’d mumble it back in a raspy, tired voice.

I think it’s watching him create, to see him so immersed in this world of music he’s crafted. Frank just gets this passion in his eyes when he plays. I see him raw and stripped down. We bicker and get into spats about who gets the last Poptart and then we’re fine, laughing about something completely different. I see what a life with Frank could be and I want it. We just work. There was a time when I would’ve fought those kinds of feelings. I would’ve ended up behind the shed, breathing into my knees. Now, I welcome them. Frank helps me feel alive. After Gerard died, I felt like my world went from vibrant color to murky greys and blacks. When I met Frank, when I started to let him in, I got a glimpse of that color. The more time I spend around him, the more that color spills in.

“I’m home!” I call through the small shed, shutting the door with my hip as I put the grocery bags on the floor.

There’s clamoring around upstairs, Ray and Shaun appearing seconds later. They both dig through the bags, placing cans and boxes on the counter.

“Beefaroni! Yes!” Ray sets a red can aside, continuing through the shopping bags. “Did you get forks? We can’t eat beefaroni without forks.”

Rummaging through the metal shelf meant to act as a cabinet, I pull out a bag of plastic forks, “Your highness.”

“That’s funny,” Shaun giggles. “You know why that’s funny, because he’s high so it’s like your high ness.” He falls into a fit of laughter, clutching Ray’s shoulder to keep himself steady.

Nodding like I understand, I spin to put the rest of the food away, running myself right into Frank. He laughs, taking the cans from me and depositing them on the shelf.

“Hello,” Frank presses a kiss to the tip of my nose. “And don’t you look radiant today.”

I roll my eyes, arching an eyebrow, “Frank, I haven’t showered in three days.”

“I can’t tell at all,” Frank nuzzle his nose against my neck, pressing kisses to the shell of my ear.

Stifling a laugh, I kiss his cheek, “You’re only saying that because you know I went to the store and you’re hoping there’s a bag full of Reese’s hidden under the driver seat of the car that I’ll be willing to share.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Frank flutters his eyelashes, holding his hands to his heart as if I’ve actually offended him. “Can’t a guy tell his girlfriend she looks pretty?”

I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth, giving Frank a kind of pouty, half-there smile, “Your girlfriend? So that’s what I am now?”

“Oh sweetheart,” Frank chuckles lightly. “You’ve been that for a lot longer than just now.”


	34. ~34~

I snap my phone into the car vent holder as Elizabeth digs around under the driver seat. As I sit back against my chair, a handful of Reese's are dropped into my lap. Grinning over at the woman across from me, I peel off the orange wrapping, cracking the window just enough to let the cigarette smoke out. I keep waiting for Elizabeth to bring up my girlfriend comment. She’s gotta have something to say, she always does.

The more time Elizabeth and I spend around each other, the more I love her. We don’t fight. She doesn’t get under my skin the way some people do. Elizabeth is happy to call me an idiot, throw a beer in my direction, and laugh it off. It works. We talk when we want to talk. When we don’t, we sit quietly, tracing patterns into each other’s arms and legs. She brings a calm I think I’ve been lacking for a while. I took a chance today, without permission, I called her what she is.

“Is it the girlfriend or the boyfriend’s turn to pick the movie?”

I bat at her playfully, letting out a snort of laughter, “I knew you had something to say about it!”

“Oh yeah, you totally knew,” Elizabeth jests back, giving me a dopey smile. Her eyes glitter under the yellow streetlights and it’s hard not to get lost in them.

Taking another drag from the pot stuffed cigarette, I hold the inhale as I pass it to Elizabeth. My words come out in a choke of smoke and coughing, “I keep telling you, you’re bad at hiding your facial expressions. When the word came out you got all deer in the headlights. It was fucking adorable.”

“I like that you’re comfortable with me,” Elizabeth blows little smoke o’s out the window. “You just talk. There’s no filter. I see and hear the first thing you think of. There was some time when we lost that. I’m glad it’s back.”

Fiddling with the car radio, I’m able to switch over to the CD. It’s one of the mixes Gerard made for Elizabeth. The guy had impeccable taste in music, “So is that what you are – ” I give Elizabeth a goofy, overly enthusiastic grin, fluttering my eyelashes. It feels silly to be thirty and asking a girl to be my girlfriend, ”– are you, my girlfriend?”

“Apparently, it’s a role I already occupy. But you sir, now you’ve been my boyfriend for longer than you’ll ever know.” Elizabeth gives me one of those dangerous winks that send my heart flying into my throat.

~

We act like children; reverting back to fart jokes and I know you are but what am I. We stay up too late and laugh too hard and are often shitfaced before noon. But we live. We feel. We play our fucking hearts out. We enjoy it, every smelly, grimy, I’ve eaten nothing but canned corn and Oreos for a week, second of it. And Elizabeth just melds into that. She goes with whatever we throw at her, a smile almost constantly grazing her face. Ray and Shaun grow closer to her. Sometimes I catch the three of them huddled around the old television, muttering to themselves as they try and play one of the video games Ray brought. They’ve even grown accustomed to Elizabeth shoving a camera in their face, accepting her comments about wanting to remember this time.

I bring Elizabeth into the recording booth. There’s a sound for a song we’ve been trying to get down. Ray and I have exhausted our expertise and with Elizabeth’s dad playing in a metal band and teaching her to play that style, I figured we might as well see if she can give us what we want. She sits on the floor; back pressed up against the wall, head bobbing along to our song shouting through the speakers.

“I don’t think you can get what you want with the number of guitars you have. I could be wrong, I only screw around on mine, but you’d need more strings than you’ve got or someone with like four hands. Ask Rodney though.”

Ray frowns, running his fingers down the fretboard of his guitar, producing a whining that makes all of us scrunch up our noses, “Do we have an extra guitar?”

“Rodney has like twenty in his living room,” Shaun suggests with a shrug. “I’m gonna go talk to him.”

In the end, it takes five guitars to get the exact sound we want. Rodney, Ray, Elizabeth, Rodney’s son, and I cram into the sound booth. Everyone bangs away at the strings of the guitars laid out over their laps while Ray and I lay down the sounds over it. Shaun, who can’t play more than happy birthday on a guitar, stands just outside the window making silly faces and dancing around to the noise we make. Ray makes a joke about having to add more names to the back slip of the CD. We get it done though and the final lay down of the song sounds like more than I ever imagined. Rodney is a whiz behind a soundboard.

~

Elizabeth commandeers a guitar, sitting in a sunspot on the driveway, playing the same song over and over. The longer we spend at the studio, the more I see her sink into music. Most of the time she runs around with headphones in, humming gently to herself. That’s one thing about Elizabeth I still haven’t figured out yet. She listens to all these CDs that Gerard’s made, but I don’t actually know what music she likes. I still have no clue what Elizabeth enjoys listening to because she genuinely loves it, not because Gerard picked it out. The only real knowledge I have came from Mikey and he was vague as usual.

“Whatchya listening to?” I plop down next to Elizabeth, offering her my half-smoked cigarette.

She sets aside the guitar, yanking her headphones out as she takes the cigarette from me, “It’s kind of stupid.”

“Try me.”

Elizabeth sighs, handing over her phone. Sliding the headphones on, I hit play. A crackly home recording pops into existence. The voice signing to me is soft and smooth, producing a rich velvety texture as the words rush over me. “Is that Gerard?”

“Yeah. He used to sing me little songs. That one was my favorite.” Elizabeth takes the phone back. Switching it over to the speakers, she begins to strum gently. I get a grin when I start to hit my hand against the dusty pavement underneath us. Gerard’s voice spills through the phone, mixing in with Elizabeth’s and mine.

As the song ends, Elizabeth falling into a fit of laughter, and I almost tell her. I almost get caught up in the late afternoon sun and its romantic glow and the slight chill that’s beginning to hang in the air. The twinkle in her eyes and the way her giggles mix in with the bird’s song almost makes me spill my guts. I don’t though. I accept her kiss and disappear back into the studio. Now just doesn’t feel like the right time, just blurting it out doesn’t feel like the way to go about it. I want to show Elizabeth before I tell her. I want her to know long before the phrase is spoken into existence. And maybe, just maybe, I keep hoping she’ll say it first.


	35. ~35~

"We’ve gotta talk about this side of the bed thing,” I grumble trying to steal some of the quilt back from Elizabeth. Usually, I sleep on the right side of the bed. At home, there’s a dip in the mattress from my body lying there night after night. Apparently, that’s Elizabeth’s side. We’ve compromised for now and she sleeps on the right side. Here the rules all go out the window.

Elizabeth’s face is still shoved in the pillow, the only things visible above the blanket are her eyebrows and forehead, “What about it?”

“It changes every place we sleep. My apartment you’re on the right, here it’s the left. Which side do you like?”

She rolls over, pressing her chilled toes to my calf, “Are we fighting? I haven’t had any coffee. We can’t fight before coffee.”

“We aren’t fighting, silly girl,” I curl my arm around her waist, pulling her in closer to my chest as I kiss the top of her head, her hair tickling my chin.

Half-lidded eyes peek at me over the top of the quilt, “A lady always sleeps furthest away from the door.”

“Oh,” I laugh, beginning to work my fingers against Elizabeth’s ribs. She jerks away from me, trying to get away from the tickling. “Is that how it works? You’re just going to sacrifice me if someone breaks in, huh? Some girlfriend you are.”

Elizabeth lets out a squeal of laughter as I dig my fingers into her skin, beginning to work them over her ribs. Her palms make contact with my chest, trying to push me away and simultaneously wiggle her way out of my grip. Laughing right along with her, I begin to pepper Elizabeth’s face in kisses, making sure they’re sloppy and wet.

“Frank,” Elizabeth whines, continuing to try and roll and twist away from me. “Frank, stop.”

Another laugh joins in with ours, a pair of tatty converse appearing my peripheral, “Jesus you two are like children. It’s disgusting. It’s like watching freshman in high school date.”

“Fuck off, Ray,” Elizabeth grumbles, getting her hands around a pillow and throwing it in his general direction. “I’m at least a junior.”

Rolling away, I lean back on my elbows, “If she’s a junior I’m like a sixth-year senior.”

“You would be a sixth-year senior,” Elizabeth chides, playfully running her shoulder into mine.

Ray just rolls his eyes, handing over a mug of coffee before sitting down on the edge of the mattresses, “Two teenagers in puppy love. That means you’re disgusting and the rest of us would like it if you two could keep your tongues to yourselves.”

There’s throat clearing from the bottom of the stairs and Ray lets out an exacerbated sigh, “Shaun would also appreciate it if you two would share the candy he knows is hidden somewhere in the car.”

“Whatever,” I shrug. “He’s not getting any candy though. No kisses for me, no Reese’s for Shaun.”

There’s a groan of protest from where I assume Shaun is hiding.

Elizabeth chuckles, “You sound like a spoiled brat.”

“I am a spoiled brat,” I answer with a laugh, sticking my tongue out at Elizabeth before pressing it to her cheek. As she wipes my spit away, I slide my lips over to her ear, “The hottest damn brat you’ve ever seen.”

~

We have to find a bassist, a full-time bassist to play shows. For the album, Ray’s been switching between writing and playing the bass and guitar parts. Seems as he doesn’t have four arms, we can’t really do that for live stuff. The idea to just play the bass track for the upcoming tour was vetoed. So, we send Elizabeth and Rodney out to check out local shows. With Elizabeth gone, I’m able to layout my plan for the guys.

I managed to send the recording of Gerard singing over to my phone. We set his vocals over us playing the song. It’ll be something nice for Elizabeth to have, a memorial to Gerard. Elizabeth and I may have grown closer, but I want her to know I still care that she was married before; I still want her to have that part of her life. I plan on giving her the song when we get home where she won’t have three sets of expecting eyes trained on her the first listen through.

“I’m so proud of you,” I muse, running my fingers through Elizabeth’s hair as we curl into bed together later that night.

“Why?”

“When we first met you wouldn’t even take my name, now we’re doing this,” I snuggle down closer to Elizabeth, holding her tightly against my side. “I’m just proud of how strong you are and how far you’ve come. You love life again, it’s beautiful.”

Elizabeth grins up at me, a light blush dusting her cheeks, “Tell me more about Jamia.”

“She was always so full of life. She walked in and you forgot that you spilled coffee down your shirt and that the dog crapped in the house and that you got an F in science. There was just something about her that made you happy, not want to be happy, but like you were commanded to be happy by these big brown eyes and innocent smile.”

“We just got each other. Jams understood that I couldn’t be that optimistic, overly happy person all the time. She accepted that sometimes I was terribly bitter and angry. She really helped me through all that. She taught me how to channel all of that into something else, music. We moved together, shared a brain. She was the first person I ever dated and looked at and knew I loved.”

Beside me, Elizabeth has taken up tracing over the letters inked into my fingers. While most people prefer the more obvious Halloween, Elizabeth likes the bookworm one, something about the letters being daintier and it revealing more of my soul. “What did you do when you found out about her being sick?”

“Um – ” I let out a nervous chuckle, trying to resist the urge to dig into my neck, the phantom itch already beginning to prickle. “There she was sick and in the hospital and still holding me together. I gave up way before she did. The second that doctor came out of the room, I knew there wasn’t any good news. I stopped everything. If it weren’t for Ray doing my schoolwork and filling me in on stuff, I would’ve failed out of high school. I wouldn’t leave her side. Through the whole thing, she always had hope. Jams always told me that no matter what happened we got to meet each other and that was all that mattered. We got to have the time we were given and she didn’t want me to waste any of that.”

Elizabeth presses a kiss to the tattoo on my neck, “I’m sorry you lost her, Frank. And I’m proud of you too. You made it through that, staid with her even though it was probably hurting you. You’re strong Frank. And funny. And creative. And caring. And I – ”

A battle cry rings through the recording space, a hail of silly string raining down on Elizabeth and I. Ray and Shaun laugh, jumping around and letting out whoops. Elizabeth lets out a surprised squeak before throwing the quilt over her head to stop further attack. Not willing to take this sitting down, I jump up, wrestling one of the bottles away from Shaun. Ray, Shaun, and I chase each other around the space, coating the room in silly string and foamy beer.

We all end up panting in the middle of the small space, eyes closed, arms stretched over our heads. The sound of metal on metal, the slow roll of a mixing ball. Wet, sticky foam hitting my forehead, coating my eyes and mouth. Ray and Shaun let out similar moans of protest, receiving their own version of payback. Dragging the silly string away from my eyes, I stare up at Elizabeth’s killer smirk.

Ignoring the foul, burnt plastic taste that slides over my tongue, I dig my teeth into my bottom lip, tugging at it as I give a return smirk, “Hello pretty girl.”


	36. ~36~

Rodney and I find a bassist. Some college dropout named Lane playing with a sub-par Rolling Stones cover band. We were less than impressed and about to head out and then this kid just opened up. Everyone else in the band stepped off stage and he took a half there bass line and torn its pants off. After the show, he came right up to us, asked us if we were with a label, and said he’d do whatever it was we needed. Kid walked out on his own band and came right back to the studio no questions asked.

Shaun took to Lane quickly, the two sharing the same pot warped sense of humor. Frank seems indifferent; reminding everyone that we only have the space for three more days and there is still recording to be done. Ray is warier. He’s afraid that Lane won’t be able or want to learn the bass parts that have been put down. The worry ended after Ray found Lane hiding out in the sound booth at four in the morning, headphones on, going over and over the already laid down instrumental. So far, it looks like Lane is going to put in the work regardless of if it’s his original or not.

The rest of the album gets recorded with minimal problems. We all pile back into the car, leaving Rodney to finish the final mixes and send it over to the label. The energy in the car is intoxicating. Everyone talks over each other, tossing around bags of chips and beers, laughter threatening to bust through the rusting out roof. The rough mix of the record blares through the speakers, everyone shouting the lyrics back at the radio. I sit on Frank’s lap in the passenger seat, back leaning against the door just watching him.

I was going to say it. If Ray and Shaun hadn’t barged in with their silly string attack, I would’ve told Frank I love him. I took the interruption as a sign. Not right now. Right now Frank needs to ride the high of writing and recording the band’s very first album. I’ll tell him when the time is right when I know he feels it back. I know he’s falling in love with me; those words hit me like a ton of bricks. Up until the night of Frank’s birthday party I always just thought he had some fleeting attraction and that he saw me as the sad girl across the hall. I just don’t know if Frank has landed in love or if his fall is taking a little longer than mine.

~

The record comes out on a Monday. By Wednesday, the record label has a tour lined up. The band leaves on Friday for a two-month trip up and down the east coast. If that one starts off well, more dates will be added. Frank and the guys could be gone for upwards of six months if everything goes as planned. I’m happy for them, elated, thrilled, but also sad. I’ve grown used to having Frank there. The idea of him just not being there makes my heart feel heavy.

Thursday night, Frank and I fill his tub with every bubble bath and bath bomb we own. We slide on bathing suits, slip into the warm water, and pass a bottle of cheap champagne back and forth.

Frank, already happily drunk, leans his head against my shoulder, playing with the wedding rings laced around my neck, “I’m gonna call you so much you’ll want to block my number.”

“It’s presumptuous of you to think I won’t be doing the same,” I answer back, sticking my tongue out.

“Do you ever just think about how all the events in your life led you to exactly where you are? Like if you had decided not to go to the park that one time ten years ago you might not be where you are right now.” Frank sighs, taking another drink from the bottle of alcohol.

I capture his hand in mine, Gerard and my wedding rings trapped between our palms, “I try not to. It just makes me sad.”

“Because of Gerard?”

“Yeah,” I nibble at the sink inside my bottom lip. “Because of Gerard. Because I know I could’ve done something different and he’d still be here.”

Frank presses a kiss to my neck, “None of it was your fault, Elizabeth.”

I think that’s still something I’m trying to come to terms with. Living my life, falling in love with Frank; that’s all okay. Those things are how I honor Gerard. I don’t give up and somehow that keeps his spirit alive. The part I struggle with, the internal battle I continue to fight is how I handled that night. All I had to do was get in the car and pick him up. Gerard would still be here if I had just driven the thirty minutes. I feel like I let him down. The last memory he has of us is me telling him to just take the train because traffic was crazy and it’d be faster. The last words he ever heard were me not caring enough to get up off the couch. In my mind that makes the worst wife. I failed him.

“What kind of flowers to you like, Frank?” I already know where our previous conversation goes. I don’t feel like having it.

“I think they’re called peonies. They kinda look like really full carnations. My mom used to grow them in the backyard.”

Nodding, I pull the plug out of the tub drain, “You should get packed.”

“Do you not want me to go?” Frank questions, handing over a towel.

Brave face. I’m an adult. I can handle six months. I shouldn’t need Frank around to feel alive. I need to have that for myself. Nothing with Frank is certain. He could leave and never come back. I have to be okay if that ever happens, “Of course I want you to go. This is huge. It’s everything you’ve always wanted.”

“Are you gonna miss me?” Frank wraps his arms around me, resting his chin against my shoulder.

Chuckling, I tip my head to rest it against Frank’s, “Not even a little.”

Frank lets out a scoff, joining in my laughing. The floor flies away from my feet as Frank begins to spin me through the apartment, going on about how terrible I am and how I’ve only ever been using him for his alcohol and comfortable bed. As my back bounces against the mattress, Frank hovers over me, eyebrows scrunched together, tongue lulled out over his bottom lip, “And to think I was going to spend every second missing you. I guess I can just throw that plan right out the window.”

“Of course I’m gonna miss you, ya idiot,” I laugh back, craning my neck to press a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Don’t you dare go running off with some pretty punk groupie. I’ll kill you.”

Frank gives me a smirk, rolling off to the side, “You like me that much, huh?”

“Something like that.”

~

Friday morning comes too fast. In a blur of hugs and goodbyes and sliding car doors, Frank is gone. I wander back into his apartment in a kind of daze, sinking into the cold cushion of the couch. Eventually, I’ll go back to my own place. That’s where I need to be. I can’t live in here. For right now though, I need to sit in the mess of our breakfast and the coffee cups still on the table and the clothes strewn up the hallway. I need to live in the way Frank held onto my hand for just a second longer than normal, the sad half-smile, the excited glint in his eyes. I need to live in us for just a few minutes longer.

Ever since Gerard’s death, I’ve developed a fear of loss. It’s quiet most of the time, drowned out by the people I keep around. Now, with Frank going on tour and Mikey and I not talking, it’s rearing its head. Thought after thought of everything that could go wrong floods my brain. The van crashing, something on stage falling and hurting one of the guys, Frank finding someone else. I regret not telling him I love him before he left. I should have. At least if I had told him and something happened he’d know. He’d know how much I care about him.

There’s a package sitting on the kitchen counter. I almost ignore it, figuring it’s something that got delivered that Frank will open when he gets back. My name on the brown wrapping makes me pause. Flipping it over, I work the tape, picking it off. A clear CD case stares up at me, a sticky note plastered over it. The words written against a background of neon pink in Frank’s sloppy cursive bring moisture to my eyes; sometimes the past and present work perfectly together.


	37. ~37~

I spend the first few weeks Frank is gone in the window just looking out over the city. I realize I don’t really know what it’s like to be alone. I had Gerard and then I had Mikey and work and then I had Frank. Since Gerard passed I haven’t spent any significant amount of time just with myself. The song Frank created with Gerard’s voice plays almost constantly. By week three I’m not quite sure if I want to hear it or if I just can’t bear the almost constant silence.

I find comfort in the words written within Gerard’s diaries. The leather-bound notebooks once collecting dust on the art room bookshelves now feel like falling into an old friend. I’m able to find comfort in the random thoughts and little memories Gerard kept hidden within the slowly yellowing pages. Gerard’s words and Frank’s face smiling at me over the phone screen keep me going.

Mikey calls a few times. When the first call came through I purposely hung up, wanting him to know I still hadn’t forgiven him for his angsty, childish behavior. By the fourth, I lazily lift my phone from the coffee table and let it go to voicemail, watching my husband’s brother’s number scroll across the screen and fade away to black. I want to forgive him, I do. I don’t want to have this chip on my shoulder. I miss Kristin and the baby. There are even times I miss Mikey and his knowing eyes and his typically gentle guidance. I need to be okay just being first though.

As the first month melts away, I abandon the window ledge. I wander through comic book stores I used to go to with Gerard. I sit in coffee houses with too-sweet drinks and watch people go about their lives. I peruse thrift-stores and buy little trinkets I know I don’t need, but that make me smile nonetheless. I rearrange the bedroom and deep clean the kitchen and try my hand at painting sunset scenes on the empty canvases that still lean against the art room wall.

The empty feeling I got watching the van pull out of the parking lot dissipates. That happiness I thought only existed when I was around other people now settles over me like a blanket of warmth. I can sit by myself and not feel like I want to peel my skin off. The quiet that was once daunting and brought about terrible bouts of anxiety and depression is now comforting. I eat and read and dance with a lighthearted buzz. This is what living feels like. This is what being okay means. I’m getting myself back, something I’m quite certain I never would have achieved had Frank not left. Sure, he jumpstarted the process; showed me I could do it. Now I’ve proven it to myself.

On Thursday Mikey calls, I answer. He rambles on about nothing for a while before finally looping around to us getting dinner. Without a second thought, I agree. No matter what happens I need to at least know I gave reconnecting a fair shot. Mikey and I have been on rocky ground for too long now. We either need to fix it or give up. Giving up feels like losing a part of Gerard. I don’t ever want to feel like I’m losing him more than I already have.

I meet Mikey at a Thai place in a strip of slowly failing businesses just outside of the city. The tired, complacent look has pretty much completely vanished from his eyes. He looks like he’s reconnected with a good nights sleep and decided to dump the bottles of alcohol I know he hides in his home office down the drain. Mikey’s sunken in cheeks have life in them again, a light pink dusting the tanned skin. He looks more like the guy I met all those years ago instead of the guy with one foot in the grave. I take that as a good sign.

Over milky orange tea Mikey explains that he’s started to go to therapy. Once a week he makes the trip to the east side of the city and sits in a leather and mahogany decorated office and talks about why he’s so angry. I can see it’s working. Even the way Mikey breaths seems more relaxed, no burden of unexplained rage pressing down on his chest.

“I guess I just saw you as my last real connection to Gerard. When I felt that slipping away, when I saw you able to keep going, I just got so angry. You moving forward felt like losing him. That combined with years of resentment for having to take care of him just kind of bubbled over into what happened,” Mikey explains as we eat our curry. “I feel better now though. Happier. I know where the anger came from and what I need to do to handle it. I’m still working through forgiving Gerard, but this feels like the right path.”

I smile over at Gerard’s younger brother, squeezing his hand, “I’m really proud of you for putting in the work. I know it’s not always easy.”

“Yeah, it’s hard to admit you became the worst version of yourself. How are things with Frank? Is his tour going well?”

“I miss him like crazy, but we talk every day so that helps. He says people are showing up to the shows, more every night. He’s still waiting for the news if the tour will be extended.”

Mikey nods, chewing on the prongs of his fork, “Do you want it to get extended?”

“Obviously I’ll continue to miss him, but I do. Being in a band is all Frank’s ever wanted. I want him to be able to live his dream.”

“You know he asked me to join his team.”

I’m glad Frank finally got around to sharing his plan with Mikey. I might have been upset with the guy, but I still only wanted the best for him. Mikey is family now. I was brought up to silently cheer on family, even if I didn’t talk to them. “What’d you say?”

“It was a voicemail. I’ve not called him back. Kristin and I have talked it over though. She thinks it might be good for me. I’m dying at my job right now, I don’t enjoy it like I used to. Being a part of the team would give me a little more job freedom.”

“You should do it, Mikes. They’re all good guys. You’d have fun.”

Mikey drums his fingers against the table, snatching the check away before I can even so much as look at it, “Fun, huh?”

“Yeah, fun,” I nod, curling my fingers around the door handle of my car. “I think we both forgot how to live. Being around that band, I think you’ll remember.”

“Did you?”

Smiling, I take Mikey’s hand in mine, “I learned to live before the band, but they did teach me how to enjoy it. I think that’s the most important part.”

“Hey, Liz?”

I hum back a response, pulling the car door open as Mikey retreats to his vehicle.

“Thank you for giving me this chance to show you I’ve changed. I missed having you around.”

Shaking my head, I laugh at Mikey’s comment, sliding into the driver seat, “You just missed having a free babysitter. I’ll see you around Mikey. Keep smiling.”


	38. ~38~

“So what’s the deal with the girl?” Lane questions as the van turns onto the highway.

My heart sank seeing her just standing there in the parking lot, waiving as we pulled out. Elizabeth is strong. She’ll be okay. I still feel a little guilty just leaving her. We pretty much do everything together. When we aren’t she’s got Mikey. From what I gathered of their confrontation, it might be a long time before Elizabeth is willing to let him back in. I just don’t want her to shut down again. Coming home and seeing her broken would crush me.

“There’s no deal with her,” Ray jumps in, a defensive edge to his voice. “She’s Frank’s girlfriend. That’s all you need to know.”

Lane lifts his hands up near his shoulders, “I wasn’t trying to start anything. I just thought she was part of the team, but we just left her behind. I’m just trying to figure out the dynamic.”

“Calm pit bull,” Shaun reaches over the seat, petting Ray’s head.

Leaning against the window, I light up a cigarette, “She’s got a job she can’t leave. That’s why she’s not coming.”

“How’d you two meet?”

Lane’s a good kid. He puts in the work. He’s an incredible bass player. He’s young though. Everyone else in the band is well past his twenty-one. He’s naïve and not good at reading a room. When Lane wants an answer, he’ll ask the same question fifty different ways until you give it to him. He probably has no idea that I don’t want to talk about Elizabeth right now.

“She lives across the hall.”

Shaun, sensing my unwillingness to give answers, nudges Lane in the calf. Our drummer flashes a joint in the bassist’s line of sight, pulling all his attention. I give him a smile of thanks, before sliding my headphones on and digging my phone out of my pocket. There’s already a message from Elizabeth.

Usually, we just text or talk on the phone. This is a video message. I’m transported into Elizabeth’s living room. She’s sitting against the window, the song I mixed for her playing in the background. She’s smiling, tears clinging to the corners of her eyes that shine brightly in the morning sun. Thank you she mouths, blowing a kiss before the screen goes black.

~

We gather somewhat of a following within the first week. I start to recognize faces in the crowd, people who went to one show and decided to follow us to the next. Those people keep us fed. The label fronted the money for the van and venue costs, but everything else is kind of on us. I dumped a lot of my savings into making the album everything we wanted. Being almost two months out of work, Ray and I don’t have much money to play with.

Everything kind of happens in a blur on tour. You fall asleep in one town and wake up in another. You don’t remember the last time you showered or weren’t surrounded by the same four dudes all the time. The only thing that keeps you going through endless exhaustion is the thrill of the show. When I get up on those makeshift stages or jump around with the crowd on the floor, I feel like I’ve been electrocuted. There’s this energy that everyone just kind of feeds off of. It’s the closest thing to a spiritual experience I’ve ever had.

Elizabeth and I continue the video messages. She’ll send me ones from work where she’s covered in paint and sharpie, belting out some show tune I’ve never heard before. I show off each venue, funny things the guys are doing in our little bit of downtime. She still looks happy. The light is still there in her eyes. The videos let me know that she’s gonna be okay.

“So, I realized I have a lot more time than I did before. I guess it has something to do with you not taking it all up,” Elizabeth laughs, her fingers raking through her hair. “I am muddling through putting one of your songs to piano. It’s still really shitty, but – ”

She plays through the opening of the last song on the record. It’s a little choppy, but I’m certain with time it’ll be amazing. I like to see her interacting with the music I made, really enjoying it. About halfway through the video, there’s a crash somewhere in the apartment and I see a blur of Mikey’s kid. I guess they ended up making up after all. That makes me smile. I’m glad she’s got someone there.

Ray and Shaun get into the video messages, recording countless stupid things; hotel bathrooms, me singing when I don’t think anyone is listening, me on the phone with Elizabeth. The tour really brings everyone closer. When you can’t get away from the people you’re traveling with, you learn to look over certain things. Parts of people that used to bug you just don’t seem as important anymore. I get used to Lane’s lines of questioning. I learn to sleep through Ray’s snoring and Shaun shouting at his Gameboy.

I can already hear the buzz of the crowd, pushing against the walls of the bar we’re playing tonight. Grinning into the camera, I wave, “Hello pretty girl. I’m making the intern from the label who’s following us around record part of the show so you can see it.”

Our tour manager, the term used extremely loosely, is barely nineteen. He’s a rail-thin, sandy-haired kid who runs around with three different cellphones, drives us around, and tries to keep us all from getting too drunk to make it back to the van. Despite his age and nearly constant shitting his pants look, he does a decent job and is pretty cool to be around. He taps a finger to his watch, nudging his head in the direction of the stage.

“Okay, I gotta go, bye,” I blow the phone a quick kiss as Daniel fumbles to not drop it.

About halfway through the set, I see Daniel pushing his way to the front, my phone held up over his head. As I stop to take a water break, I see red. Her face takes up most of the screen, beaming, eyes aglow. She waves when she realizes I see her. I don’t know why I didn’t think of just video chatting her in the first place. Lifting a hand in a wave, I shoot a wink at the phone before diving into the next song.

The second we bow off stage, I steal my phone back, slipping into the bar’s bathroom, “It’s you.”

“It’s me,” Elizabeth answers excitedly, tossing her hands up. “Did you know some kid stole your phone?”

I chuckle, perching on one of the sinks, “That’s Daniel, our handler.” I hold up a hand to indicate air quotes around the word handler.

“You sound amazing and it looks like the place was packed.”

~

Two weeks in we have our first bad show. Not bad in the sense that anything goes terribly wrong or that no one shows up. Bad in the way that the place is packed and people are standing on top of each other and I wonder if I’m the right guy for this job. I never intended on being a frontman. When the band started it was Ray and me on guitar with a lead singer. He left and I was kind of thrown into the role. I was good enough for the bar we played but now, with people out there cheering and starting to sing the lyrics back to me, the nerves settle in. Do I know how to do this? Am I doing it right? I never wanted to be the bombastic, outlandish frontman spouting garbage to get the crowd riled up. Is that what these people need? Should I be that guy?

The rest of the band senses something is off. When I shove myself into the back of the van between the equipment and the seats, no one says anything. Everyone sits in complete silence as I stare down at my phone. I want to call her. Her voice will calm me down. She’ll talk about nothing and force me to let my fears go for a while. I just don’t want her to worry about me. Elizabeth has her own life, her own issues. I know we talk every day, but I still have no real idea of what’s happening back home.

A hand presses into my shoulder, a mop of curly brown hair hanging in front of me. Ray gives me a small smile, his eyes flicking to my still illuminated phone screen, “Just call her.”

Sighing, I give him a nod, hitting the call button and pressing the phone between my ear and the side of the van.

Elizabeth answers on the second ring, sounding out of breath, an edge to her tone, “Frank? Is everything okay? I wasn’t expecting you to call again today.”

We spent almost two hours on the phone this morning before she had to go to work. I hate that I’m worrying her. “Everything’s fine. Were you working out?”

“No,” Elizabeth laughs. “I’m over at Mikey’s playing a game with some of his work friends. Think the floor is lava with trivia and lots of rum.”

“You gonna teach me that one when I get back?”

Elizabeth giggles, “Are you gonna be as trash at it as you were at cards?”

“Probably,” I pick at some of the masking tape hanging off one of the boxes.

“So what’s up?”

“Just had an off show. Do you think I can do this? I mean the place was packed tonight and everyone seemed like they were having a blast, but I just don’t know. Am I what they need?”

I can hear the background noise disappear, a door shutting, “What they need is an hour or two to just let go. The music does that. All you have to do is show up and play.”

“I don’t know what to say to them.”

Another laugh, “You could tell them you just shit your pants and they’d cheer. You’ve been to shows; do you ever remember what the lead guy says? Just be yourself, show them you’re just a normal guy.”

“I’m not telling anyone if I shit my pants.”

“You know what I mean.” I can see the eye roll, the dorky drunk smile she’s probably wearing. A warmth washes over me, the thundering of my heart slowing. “You’re good at this, Frank. Just because you don’t do it how other people do it doesn’t mean it’s wrong. It means it’s you and you is pretty fucking great.”

Shaking my head, I settle in further against the back of the seats, “Now who’s getting soft?”

“You need soft right now. If you wanted a slap in the face you would’ve gone to Ray. Get some sleep, okay?”

“Elizabeth?”

She hums, “Yes, Frank?”

“Thank you.”

“You helped me, now it’s my turn.”

This isn’t a tit for tat. I don’t play that way. I went into this thing with Elizabeth expecting nothing in return. I just wanted to see her smile. We build each other up, giving whatever we can when we can to assure the other person, “We’ll keep helping each other. Enjoy your party. Sleep well.”

“Good night, Frank. Tell the rest of the guys I say hi.”


	39. ~39~

“Do I have a surprise for you.”

All I can see is Elizabeth’s face, cherry red splayed out around her head like a vibrant halo. In the background, there’s the sound of whirring tattoo machines and EDM music. I’ve always liked the tattoos Elizabeth has. They’re elegant and dainty and fit who she is as a person. It always seemed like she was content with the art she had. I try and imagine what else she could be getting, watching the video message over and over. Excitement rolls over me and I can’t wait to get to trace over the new lines in her creamy skin.

“Did she get a new tattoo?” Shaun questions, his head resting in Lane’s lap. The two continue to grow closer as the days fly by. They’re cuddly and flirt back and forth constantly. So long as Shaun is happy, I’ll support whatever he wants.

Leaning forward, I rest my chin on the seat, “I think so.”

“Okay, so I have a question,” Lane starts. He’s slowly learned what exactly the situation between Elizabeth and I is. “If the husband was still alive, would you be trying to get with her?”

Ray places his hand cautiously on my shoulder. Lane’s questions used to piss me off to no end. Now that I’ve been stuck in a van with him for almost two months, I’ve grown used to it. “Hell no. She came into our friendship still so in love with Gerard. I wouldn’t have ever stood a chance. Besides, I don’t really ever remember seeing her until after he died. I’m not sure we would’ve ever run into each other.”

I know my boundaries. While I’m open to a lot, ruining someone’s marriage is not it. Even if I had seen Elizabeth, I would’ve never approached her. I have the feeling that Gerard and Elizabeth were so wrapped up in each other, that she wouldn’t have even noticed me let alone given me a second thought.

“You wouldn’t have even thought about it?”

“Hey now,” I snatch away the cigarette Shaun has been smoking, taking a drag. “Thinking and doing are two different things.”

Ray gives me a sharp slap on the back of my head, “Don’t be a pig.”

“I’m not. I respect the hell out of Elizabeth.”

“Then act like it,” Ray shakes his head, settling back against the car seat.

Rolling my eyes, I dig around in my backpack, pulling out the notebook I use to write song ideas down in, “I’ve been writing a little. I’m thinking even if this tour ends after two months, we should go back into the studio as soon as we can. Using the momentum from tour will be a good move.”

Shaun snatches the tatty book away from me, his eyes scanning over the various pieces I’ve put together, “This is rad man. We doing this with Lance as the bassist?”

“If he wants to be an official member of the band, I don’t see why not.”

Lance reaches up, clapping his hand over mine, “Hell yeah.”

~

We’re in Philly when our rep from the label calls. Seems as the shows have only gotten more packed over our short time on the road, they’re adding more dates. We’ll be moving away from the east coast and into the heartlands of America. We’ll get two full days off.

The label puts us up in a motel. The kind where all the doors open up onto the parking lot and the noise of semi-trucks rumbling down the highway is constant background noise. The rooms are clean and we can make our own waffles in the breakfast room, which thrilled Shaun to no end. At this point, anything beats the van that reeks of sweat and cigarette smoke and is always just a smidge too hot.

With the downtime, I start to really think about my feelings. I already know I love Elizabeth. She’s been a constant support system since the beginning of the tour. Not once has she complained about late-night phone calls or how long I’ve been gone. She just smiles and tells me she’s proud of me, showing me that she’s been feeding the fish and watering the plants. I know I’ve got the guys to lean on, but I honestly don’t know if I would’ve gotten through the tour without Elizabeth being there to put my worries and insecurities to bed.

I need her to know. I can’t keep holding these feelings inside. I don’t want her to have to wonder. I don’t want there to be a worry that this time apart is going to change anything. Elizabeth needs to be here. I need to be able to hug her and fall asleep with her head on my chest, and I need her to know I love her and only her.

Letting out a shaky breath, I hit the call button.


	40. ~40~

"Hey, Elizabeth, it's Frank. Uh – the label is extending the tour for another two months. We're in Jersey right now for a couple days off. I was hoping you'd be able to come see me. If you get this message before Sunday we're at the Ion Motel in Jersey City."

I have to tell him. That phone call, this two day break in their schedule; it's my sign. I don't even think as I walk out of work, waiving off the slack-jawed looks and whines of protest. I've got a bag packed and am flying up the New Jersey turnpike by noon.

Not even bothering to grab my bag from the trunk, I hurry towards the sliding glass doors indicating the lobby. It's like stepping back into a bad 70s film. The carpet is a worn, orange-brown. Patterns pop off of the peeling wallpaper making my head spin. Taking in a deep breath, I smile at the lady behind the desk. "Hi, I'm here to visit Frank Iero. I just need his room number."

"We don't do that."

I keep the smile, now fake, plastered across my face. Each tick of the second hand on the clock behind her head sends my heart beating faster. I know I've got time. It's only Friday, but it feels like it's slipping like if I don't do this right now I'll never be able to. "I know it's for safety and everything, but you see, he's been gone for a while. This is the closest we've been to each other in a while. One of his bandmates texted me. They're trying to set it up like a surprise."

It's a lie, but I do want to surprise Frank. I never answered the phone call. He has no idea I'm here. Calling to ask for the room number would ruin the surprise. I want to see that sparkle come to his eyes as he pulls the door open. I want that off guard chuckle he lets out, his fingers working against the tattoo on his neck.

"What was his name again?" The girl begins to type something into the computer.

"Frank Iero. The rooms may be listed under Nebula Records or Matthew Hartwell. That's their rep at the record label and the record labels name."

There's more typing, the lady chewing at her lip as her eyes scan over the screen, "It's room 10 –" she frowns at me, looking me up and down "– I'm not supposed to be doing this. Please don't kill him."

"Thank you so much."

The room is easy enough to find. The numbers start at 1 and end at fifteen. All face out into the parking lot, their rusting numbers tacked to the doors. There is no hesitation in my knock. No nerves have settled in. The impending feeling of running out of time has ceased. I'm going to tell Frank I love him. A thought that only a few months ago made me nauseous and sweaty is now nothing but calming. It's the right time.

Seconds after I pull my hand away, Frank's smiling face appears before me. He's in sweatpants, tattooed over chest exposed. He lets out a laugh, pulling me into a bone-crushing hug, littering kisses over my face once he releases me. "Hi, pretty girl."

"Hello man."

Frank fully opens the door, ushering me inside, the two of us talking over each other, words flowing out with no real sense of direction.

"I have something I need to get off my chest."

"Frank, I have something to tell you."

"I was so lost when I met you. I was a boat just letting the waves push me wherever."

"When I met you I was so incredibly broken. I didn't think I could ever let someone else in. I was consumed with grief."

"But then you were there. I remember how much fun life could be. I saw your passion and it sparked something in me."

"The more time I spent around you, the more I felt like I was healing. You helped me to laugh. You let me spill all these stories about Gerard. You were so gentle and sweet to me."

"I kept telling myself that you needed time. I was just supposed to be a friend, a shoulder to cry on. And then everything just started to snowball."

"I started to trust you. I saw you as so much more than just the guy across the hall."

"You just captivated me. I needed to know you more."

"I couldn't just walk away."

"It's like you let me in but only so much. I know you, but I don't. You keep me at a distance, like letting me in all the way would push him out."

"And I was so terrified because letting you in felt like losing him."

"And fuck it, I'm just gonna say it, I love you Elizabeth!"

"And Goddammit, 211, I love you!" I pause for a second, Frank's gibberish rambling settling over me. "Wait. What?"

"I said I love you Elizabeth. I love you and I can't keep holding it in because it makes my head feel like it's going to explode."

I laugh, relief washing over me, "I love you too, Frank."

He smiles, his lips finding mine as he lifts me up off the ground. My back hits the sheets on the bed, Frank crawling in on top of me. We hold each other, our lips working together. I feel his love in this kiss, in his tender touches, in the way his body works with mine. Hours later we lay in our comfortable bubble of newly expressed emotions. Frank gently draws patterns into my arms, eyes set on the new tattoo on my thigh.

I got it as a mix of the past and present, orchids and peonies. Frank and Gerard. At first, I was worried they wouldn't work together, that the composition of each would butt into the other, making more of a muddled mess than anything. The tattoo artist proved me wrong, much like Frank has proven to me that I can love him and still love Gerard.

"Why those flowers?" Frank questions, pressing further into my side. His skin is warm and comforting against mine. I've still not completely gotten used to sleeping in the bed alone again, having him here with me is a good feeling.

Reaching down, I trace over the thin black line of one of the orchids, "Orchids for Gerard." I switch over to one of the peonies, "and the other for you."

Frank blinks back at me, his lips slightly parted, breathing coming out hot against my neck, "Oh."

"Was that too much?"

I'm pulled into a tight hug, Frank's face nuzzling into my shoulder, "No. I think that's the cutest thing anyone's ever done for me. God, I missed you."

"We talked every day," I giggle back, feeling the same. Talking is nice, but I miss being able to just sit there with Frank in comfortable silence. Just to be around him, to feel his presence, to look over and see him smiling back at me.

Frank shakes his head, trying to hide the blush that rises to his cheeks, "Not the same."

"I missed you too," I run my fingers through his hair. It's long and shaggy, hanging over his eyes. "How long is the next run of tour?"

"Another two months through the middle states. They're already talking about a west coast run as well. We're working on another album though, so who knows. Our rep has been talking about Europe."

"Europe? That'd be amazing." I lay a kiss on Frank's forehead. "I'm so proud of you."

Frank nods, intertwining our fingers, "I want you to come if we go to Europe. I think Mikey will be signed on by then. We've been talking back and forth with the label about money and everything. I want both of you there if and when we go."

"I wouldn't miss it. Want a cigarette?"

"Please."

After clothes have been located and put back on, Frank and I move to the walkway surrounding the fronts of the rooms. I lean my head on his shoulder, his arm curled around me. We just sit in the silence, faces turned up to the sun, relishing in the little moment. Across the parking lot, a door opens. Ray's back is to us as he locks up. His face lights up as he turns around, jogging over. I'm swept up off the curb, twisting back and forth through the air as Ray hugs me.

"When the fuck did she get here? Were you just not gonna tell us?"

Frank chuckles as Ray sets me back down, his hand almost immediately finding mine, "I just wanted a few hours. I was gonna tell you."

Ray gives Frank and wink, "Uh-huh. Does Elizabeth know about the extension?"

"That's why I'm here. I wasn't going to pass up a chance to see my boyfriend before the road takes him away again," I laugh, gently running my shoulder into Frank's.

"Did you tell her the other thing?"

Almost immediately I deduce what the other thing is, feigning ignorance just to see how Ray is going to try to back peddle out of this, "What other thing?"

"Uh – " Ray's eyes grow wide, his fingers raking through his hair as his weight shifts from toe to heel. "Ya know, just anything else he may have to tell you."

By this time Frank is doubled over, his face red from trying to hold back laughter, "Oh man, imagine if I hadn't told you."

"He'd be in real shit right now," I answer back, continuing to watch Ray grow more confused.

"Guess he's lucky I love him, huh?"

At this, I have to bite back my own laughter, sputtering on the inhale of cigarette I just took, "You seem to love a lot of things lately."

"Dammit," Ray kicks at the curb, "I hate both of you. I thought I fucked up." He bats playfully at Frank. "You can't do that shit to me, man."

Frank takes a drag from his cigarette, shaking his head. His words come out through a puff of smoke, "Hey, don't place the blame on me. She started this."


	41. ~41~

“We should do something,” I announce late into the afternoon on Saturday.

Frank and I have spent most of my visit curled up in bed, talking and watching TV. The only time we really leave the room is to smoke and go out to eat with the others. I can tell Ray wants to talk about something, but he respects the time Frank and I want to spend with each other, not ever coming over to interrupt. I think both Frank and I need this.

We figure out how the relationship will work with him being on the road for the foreseeable future. Both of us know it won’t be easy, but we’re willing to make it work. I look through my schedule and we come up with dates for me to travel out and see him when a new tour starts. Frank asks if I resent him for having this lifestyle. No matter how many times I assure him I’m by his side through it all, that worried look still lingers deep in his eyes. I think Frank and I are the same in that we’ve both lost people. That fear of losing more never really goes away. I’m going to do all I can to show him I really am in this for the long haul. Now that I’ve started this with Frank, I’m not letting it go anytime soon.

“Like what?”

Reaching forward, I run my finger down the bridge of Frank’s nose, letting it dip off to the side where a small hole sits, “Would you ever get this re-pierced?”

“Maybe,” Frank shrugs, sliding his hand over mine. “Why?”

I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, giving Frank and sheepish grin, “Would you do it today?”

“Would you do it today?” He rolls us over, legs on either side of my hips, grinning down at me as his fingers press into the ticklish part of my ribs.

I let a giggle escape, “Let’s do it.”

“What’s gotten into you?”

Giving Frank a wink, I slide out of bed, “Put your pants on.”

Two hours and a gas station trip later, we walk towards a glass-fronted building with various drawings hanging in the windows. Frank stops us right outside the door, taking both my hands in his. He looks over my face, eyes lingering when they connect with mine. After answering some unspoken question, Frank nods, pulling the door open.

At the sound of the bell, the guy behind the counter looks up, smiling when he sees Frank, “I wondered when you’d be back in. Six months is a long time for you to not get inked, my man.”

“Not in for a tattoo today, Paul. What’s Rosie’s schedule look like today?”

Paul flips open a black plastic scheduling book, his finger gliding over the page, “She’s finishing up an appointment right now, but if you don’t mind waiting ten minutes she can fit you in.”

“Both of us?”

“Yeah,” Paul shuffles around under the desk, producing two clipboards. Once he’s fitted the right paperwork to them, he hands them over to Frank and I. “Standard questions.”

Frank tilts his chin in thanks before leading us over to a couch, “You sure you wanna do this?”

“It was my idea. If I hate it, I’ll take it out,” I shrug back, already halfway through filling in my information.

Rosie is a petite girl with bright pink pigtails and cotton candy blue lipstick. She spends more time flirting back and forth with me than actually setting anything up. There’s a mischievous glint in her eyes and her nose crinkles any time she smiles. I’ve always been mildly terrified of getting any kind of piercing, but Rosie’s cheerful smile and gentle touch puts me at ease.

“Alright, which of you is first?”

Frank turns to me, waiting patiently for me to decide. His hand finds mine, thumb running along my knuckles as I chew at my bottom lip, “I’ll go first.”

“Perfect.” Rosie pulls a felt-tip pen out of her pocket, “I’m just gonna need you to stare straight ahead for me.”

The piercer gently fits a glove-covered finger under my chin, holding my head steady. Once she’s marked the spot she lets me look it over. For a few seconds, I stare at myself in the floor-length mirror tacked to the wall. I hold my own gaze, muddy eyes staring back at me. For a split second, I see his face beside mine, lips pulled up in a half-smile, eyes glittering. Taking in a deep breath, I fish our wedding rings out from under my shirt, squeezing them in my hand. “Okay.”

“You didn’t tell me you two got married, Frankie,” Rosie bats playfully at Frank’s shoulder, eyes dancing between the two of us.

Frank gives me a wink, “Not quite, Rosie.”

“None of my business,” Rosie answers back, holding her hands up in a sign of surrender.

“I was married,” I explain as the girl begins to gather her supplies. “He passed away. Frank was kind enough to pick me up off the ground. I’ve had the damndest time getting rid of him.”

The piercer chuckles, “We’ve been trying for years. Give up sweetheart, you’ll lose.”

As Rosie lines the needle up with the mark on my nose, I squeeze Frank’s hand, “I think at this point I’m okay with that. He’s not too bad to be around.”

A pain shoots through the left side of my face, my eyes prickling with tears. Rosie coos encouragements, talking me through what she’s doing. When I reopen my eyes, there is a silver ring threaded through my nose. Frank beams over at me, wiping a stray tear from my cheek as he presses a kiss to my temple.

Once Frank has the hole in his nose reopened and we’ve paid the bill, we wander down the street to a coffee shop. Gently, Frank taps the new ring through my nose, smiling over at me, “Now we’ve got our own.”

“I suppose we do.”

“Eli – ”

“It’s okay, Frank.”

He lets out a long sigh, threading our fingers together, “You’re sad.”

“Sometimes it’s still hard.”

“Do you need me at home?”

Lifting our hands, I lay my lips over the tattoos on Frank’s fingers, “I need you to be exactly where you are. You’re living your dream, Frank. I don’t ever want to be the person who takes that away from you. I’ll be okay. Wanna know why?”

“I have a feeling you’ll tell me anyway,” Frank answers with a wink.

“Because when you come home, you’re coming to me. Because you love me and I love you. Love is stronger than any distance. We’ll always have that.”

Frank swallows down the lump growing in his throat, wiping at glossy eyes, “I love you, Elizabeth Way.”

“Just Elizabeth, Frank.”

He nods as we both stand, “Just Elizabeth.”

Packing up is difficult. I don’t want to leave. I want to abandon my car and climb into that van with Frank, forgetting my obligations back home. I can’t though. Not right now. This is Frank’s adventure. He needs this and I need to continue to be okay being by myself. We’re going to come out of this stronger than ever. Besides, I’ve got a part of him with me now. That little glint of silver to remind me that just like Gerard, Frank is always with me.

“Call when you get home safe?”

Tipping up on my toes, I press my lips to Frank’s forehead, “The second I pull into the garage. Be safe, okay?”

“Always,” Frank squeezes my hand.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He lounges against the room door, smiling as I toss my bag into the trunk of the car. As I open the driver door, I blow a kiss, chuckling at Frank catches it. He presses his palm to his chest before waving, the door shutting.

A hand on my shoulder stops me from sliding into the driver seat. Turning, I see Ray smiling back at me. He runs his fingers through his hair, the pieces falling haphazardly over his face, shielding his forehead and the tops of his eyes. “I just wanted to say thank you. He needed this.”

“You know, when I first met Frank I thought that I needed him. Now, I realize we need each other.”

Ray nods, “This is the first time I’ve seen him stay with someone longer than a few months since Jamia. You let him be who he needs to be. You show him that he can be that person and still have someone stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere, he knows that and if he forgets I’m a call away.”

“I’ll take good care of him.”

I point two fingers at my eyes, switching them around to point at Ray as I slide behind the steering wheel, “You better.”


	42. ~42~

The venues we play on the second leg of tour are bigger. Once crammed into bars and garages, we now play local park amphitheaters and small indoor stages. The crowds continue to grow. There are a handful of people who followed us from the east coast. I start to learn their names, their stories, why my band means something to them. It becomes a group I look forward to seeing. Something about having familiar faces in the ever-growing crowd keeps me grounded. It's like having family on the road. I take time to go outside and smoke with them, show them I appreciate their support.

Mikey, who will be signing on as an official member of the team in a little over a month, flies out to a few shows. Sometimes he's accompanied by Elizabeth, most times he's alone. Without even getting paid Mikey falls into his role. With his help, the band officially starts to turn a profit. He explains different aspects of marketing and how to budget so we’ll have leftover money at the end of each month. What was once a scowling man with sunken-in cheeks is now someone who jokes around and smiles. Mikey is healing too. I hope that having this job will continue to help him with that process.

“I guess the next time I see you will be back at home,” Mikey says as we wait outside for his cab back to the airport.

“Yeah. Another month or so.”

Mikey puts his hand on my shoulder, stopping my fidgeting, “She’s doing fine, Frank. I see her almost every day. She’s still happy. She’s excited to see you.”

“This is still what she wants?”

“She’s in this for the long haul,” he smiles at me, patting me on the back at the yellow cab pulls into the parking lot. “She’s still what you want?”

“More than anything.”

Mikey nods, beginning to load his duffel bag into the back of the cab, “Then no running, okay. You two are good for each other. Those feelings you have; trust them. She loves you.”

We go straight from tour into the recording studio. With profit now coming in, we’re able to do more. This new studio, located in upstate New York, is better supplied than our first one. Anything we could possibly need is at our fingertips. Once again, we ask Rodney to mix the tracks. He’s able to give our sound that gritty feel we’re hoping to keep throughout all the music we put out. It takes about a month to put everything down. We spend that time in a set of apartments rented out by the week.

It’s definitely a nicer set up; the room to stretch out our legs, shower, and wash clothes is a welcomed change to the van. Despite all these perks, it feels weird to be recording without Elizabeth around. Her energy helped keep us in good spirits during the first session. Also, I miss her baking. We had so many baked goods while recording at Rodney’s studio. He allowed Elizabeth to use the kitchen anytime she wanted. The packaged stuff just isn’t as good.

There’s talk swirling around about another tour. The label just wants to see how the new album is perceived before they set anything in stone. Looking at the spike in the sales of our debut record, it’s looking like this one will do just as well, if not better. Our rep lets us know we’ll need to get passports and be prepared to start traveling overseas. We’re also sent over a thick book of options to refurbish a bus. Mostly I let Ray handle it all. He’s much more organized and detail-oriented than the rest of us. He gathers all the information and then gives it to us in bite-sized pieces. To be honest, I’m exhausted. I love being in a band, it’s all I’ve ever wanted, but I know we’ve all pushed ourselves. I’m not sure anyone was quite ready to hit the ground running this fast this soon.

Even with the whirlwind of information and possibilities, everyone does remain in relatively high spirits. Lane really gets to open up on this album, showing everyone the skills he possesses. We get some rad bass lines and even find a spot on one of the songs to give him a solo. He’s a dedicated individual and I’m glad we were able to pull him out of the go-nowhere band he was originally playing with.

“Frank?” There’s a quick rap on the door before Ray pushes his way into the bedroom. “You’re the last person I have to go over bus details with. I made up a list of possibilities, everyone’s been voting. I’m gonna take what gets top pick and send that back to Matt.”

I’m handed a sheet with little boxes to tick, each section labeled by bolded headings. Ray also hands over the options book, little tabs matching the highlight that goes with the headings. “We can afford everything on here?”

“I went through and took out anything that would push us over the budget the label is giving us,” Ray confirms. “Matt did say we’d be in a van if we go to Europe though. The bus is just for U.S. and Canada stuff.”

“He really thinks we’re going abroad?”

Ray nods, sitting down at the edge of the bed, “Yeah. We just sent over the rough mix of the album. They’ve already started marketing, hinting at new stuff, creating a tentative schedule for things. He even said something about music videos. If everything that he told me on the phone actually happens we might be gone for a long time.”

“You’re telling me this because of Elizabeth, right?”

My friend sighs, lips tugging into a frown. Sad brown eyes stare back at me, “We can all see how much you miss her. Look, man, I’ve seen you depressed and you were pretty damn close before she came to see us in Jersey. I’m not saying you’re not dedicated, I’m just saying that if you want to push the album release so we can all spend some time at home no one would blame you. I need to know now though so I can let the label know.”

“Is that what you think we should do?”

“I think that the band stands behind you no matter the decision,” Ray pats my ankle through the blanket. “For right now, why don’t you just look over the bus stuff, okay?”

I give Ray a nod, already beginning to flip through the bus booklet as he stands and exits back into the living room. Ray’s right, I do miss Elizabeth. She’s an important part of my life now. While I love the band, playing shows, meeting fans, being away from her is shitty. It’s hard, harder than I ever thought it would be. Elizabeth and I are fine without each other, but we’re so much better together. We don’t need each other to breathe or live, but it all feels a lot easier with her by my side.


	43. ~43~

I spend the majority of our last week in upstate New York shut in my room. The door stays closed, hiding the constant pacing going on behind it. Nothing piques my interest. The band dinners and movie nights pass in a hazy blur of colors and pretend laughter.

When I was younger I used to go through terrible bouts of depression. I’d do weeks without leaving my bedroom, not eating or showering. What I thought was me growing out of it was actually me getting used to the constant numb, uninterested state of being. When I realized that, I went from therapist’s office to therapist’s office, trying to figure out how to fix myself. After about the twentieth initial intake I realized therapy just wasn’t for me. I couldn’t just think my way out of depression. Instead, I pushed myself, pushed myself to write music, to start playing guitar again. I refused to talk about it, to share how I was feeling with anyone. I wanted to be stronger than what was eating away at my mind.

The others notice. It’s not hard to see the bags under my eyes, realize I’m shutting myself away. The thing is I’m not sure this is depression. Depression makes me tired, sluggish. Whatever I’m feeling now is like drinking too much coffee. I can’t sit still. I lay awake staring up at the ceiling, tossing and turning. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get Ray’s words to stop cycling through my head.

Should I postpone this album release? Am I making the right decisions? Is there a way to balance the band and Elizabeth? Does picking one mean giving up the other? How long is Elizabeth really going to put up with me being gone?

Mikey told me not to run. Thing is, since Jamia died, I’ve done nothing but that. The second things felt like they might work out I found an excuse to leave. I spend a lot of time trying to figure out why that is. My only real, solid conclusion is that I blame myself for not treasuring the time I had with Jams. If she doesn’t get to be here, living her life, making memories, I don’t get to either.

This realization comes on Friday, three days before we’re meant to head home. I’ve spent so long telling Elizabeth that she needs to keep pushing forward, to not be afraid of being happy and living her life, and here I am unable to take my own advice. I’ve spent so long being complacent, just letting things happen to me. I can’t keep doing that. As much as I don’t want to admit it, that complacency is a form of running. I don’t want to run anymore. I just wish I knew a way to have both the band and Elizabeth. Equal. Together. For the first time since Jamia died, I don't want to let go. I don't want to lose Elizabeth. She means too much to me.

Every idea I come up with seems impossible. Elizabeth is a good guitar player, but we already have enough of those in the band. I don’t want to displace someone just to bring Elizabeth in. Her current job doesn’t really have an overlap with anything a band would need. Sure, she might be able to help come up with music video ideas but that’s a couple of days out of years. The band could tour less, drop some of the momentum we’ve built, but with the way the music industry works, a break this early in our career could mean complete irrelevance.

Elizabeth has been complaining about her job for a while now. Maybe she’d quit, come on tour with us. I prod Mikey for information on if Elizabeth would actually do something like that. While he lets me know she’d up and leave with me in a heartbeat, he reminds me that the money she got from Gerard’s life insurance policy won’t last forever, if there’s even any left. I don’t want to make her dependent on me. That isn’t fair.

I tear my hair out trying to come up with some kind of solution, all while putting on a happy face for Ray, Shaun, and Lance. While they know something is going on, none of them have ventured to ask yet. Ray probably has something to do with that. He’s too observant for his own good. Sometimes I catch his staring at me, chocolate eyes filled with gentle concern.

On Saturday, Shaun barges into my room, flopping down across the bed. For a long while he just lies there, hand on his stomach, feet swinging out above the floor. As the silence continues to grow I wonder if he’s accidentally wandered into the wrong room. Shifting on the bed, I clear my throat.

Shaun rolls over on his stomach, putting his weight on his elbows, chin resting on his knuckles, “What’s going on, Frank?”

“Nothing.”

I get an annoyed frown, “Bullshit. You can talk to us, man. Whatever it is, we just want you to be okay.”

Letting out a long sigh, I set aside the notebook I’ve been scribbling down ideas in, “You know I love this job. Hell, most days I don’t even consider it a job.”

“But – ”

“I feel like I’m being a bad boyfriend. I’m gone all the time. I’ve missed her phone calls, fallen asleep on her. She acts like it’s fine, but her eyes seem uncertain. There’s a sadness in them again.”

“She misses you,” Shaun shrugs. “That’s normal.”

“I just wish there was a way for us to not have to spend such long periods apart.”

The drummer shifts around into a sitting position, legs crisscrossed, fingers picking at a few strings hanging off his shorts, “Maybe there is.”

“I don’t follow.” At this point, I’m willing to take any suggestions. I’ve pretty much gone through every idea that I can come up with.

“Liz takes pictures. The shots she’s done for us before have been good. Our label even used one of our band profile image. A lot of bands travel with their own photographer.”

“I’m not gonna force her to up and change her whole life so it fits mine. Besides, there isn’t money in the budget.”

“You aren’t forcing her, you’re asking. Don’t worry about the money. You’ve heard what our rep said, anything we need he’ll make it happen. Just ask. If she says no, she says no.”

Silence falls over Shaun and me. I chew at my lip, fingers working against the tattoo on my neck. Elizabeth does take good pictures. She seemed happy doing that at the very beginning. I remember her telling me that she really felt like she belonged. It helped her get to know Shaun and Ray better. The job would allow her to continue to explore her creative side while making money to support herself.

“Have you talked to the others about this?”

Shaun grins, “We’ve been having meetings. We know it’s hard for you, being away from her. Out of all the ideas we came up with this one was the best. Everyone thinks it'd be good. We all like having her around.”

Letting out another sigh, I rake my fingers through my hair, nodding, “I’m gonna call the label. I don’t want to ask and have her say yes only for them to say no. If I’m asking for a big life change I’m gonna make sure she’s taken care of.”


	44. ~44~

I’m in the middle of dusting the shelves around the television when my phone begins to chime. Lately, Frank has been calling at odd hours. I don’t really mind. The phone is set to max volume, the sounds able to pull me from the deepest sleep. I’d stop going to bed altogether if it meant getting to talk to him. I always look forward to our calls even if he does fall asleep on me. Frank always spends the call after apologizing, not ever believing that it’s okay. I think he worries that I’m going to decide I don’t want this. Thing is, I knew what I was signing up for. This is okay. Sure, I wish he was here, but I want him to be able to live his dream.

The number scrolling across the screen isn’t the one I’m expecting. A New York area code is the only reason I answer, thinking maybe Frank is using the studio phone instead of his cell, “Hello.”

“I’m looking for Elizabeth Way,” a gruff male voice sounds on the other line. In the background, I can hear a television and other people talking.

“This is Elizabeth. May I ask who’s calling?”

“My name is Brian Sanders, I work for Nebula Records.”

My heart stops. When the guys went out on tour they had to give an emergency contact. I immediately agreed to be that person for all of them. If something happens I’m supposed to get ahold of families. The label isn’t really supposed to call unless there’s an emergency. Swallowing a few times to get the lump out of my throat, I sink onto the couch, “Is everything okay? Did something happen?”

“I assure you everything is fine. Would you be able to come to our office tomorrow around ten?”

“For what?” My heart still thunders away in my chest and Brian’s cryptic language is doing nothing for my nerves.

“Frank wants it to be a surprise.”

“Okay. I’ll be there.”

~

The next morning, at around nine forty-five, I stand on the sidewalk in front of a glistening building. The metal sign above the door states this is the Nebula Record’s office. Sweaty fingers curl around the ornate door handle, but I’m unable to open it. Something must have happened, something they want to tell me in person. That’s all I could think about yesterday. I sent about a dozen text messages to everyone in the band, getting no reply. At the very least, Ray will usually respond, letting me know everyone is just busy at the studio, but that Frank will likely call later. Not this time. The silence only makes my nerves worse.

Behind me, there is a familiar chuckle and I turn to see Mikey behind me. He’s dressed in light jeans and a red leather jacket, “You gonna open the door or just keep standing here.”

“I’m worried they’re all dead.”

Mikey gives my shoulder a quick squeeze, stepping around me to open the other door, “They aren’t dead. I just got off the phone with Ray.”

“Why aren’t they answering my texts?” I hurry after Mikey, who seems to know his way through the building.

Gerard’s younger brother just smiles, slipping into the elevator and hitting the button for the twentieth floor, “Frank’s got something planned. He doesn’t want anyone to give it away. I think they don’t know how to answer your questions.”

“Do you know what’s going on?”

“Yes.”

I stop halfway up the hall, causing Mikey to slam into me, “Care to share?”

Mikey gives me another smile, planting his hands on my shoulders, “Liz, we are about to walk through those doors and change our whole lives. Smile. Frank and Ray and Shaun and Lance are all alive.”

Change our whole lives? Mikey’s words don’t make any sense. I know he’s supposed to be signing on as the band’s something or other, but I didn’t think that was going to happen till they got back. Besides, what does any of that have to do with me? I’m not part of the band. No one has ever mentioned anything like that to me. This is Frank’s thing. I’ve always respected that.

About fifteen minutes after we’ve taken seats in the reception area, a man with charcoal grey hair, dressed in a band t-shirt and a sports coat ushers us into an office. Golden records hang in smart-looking frames, the faces of their writers staring out at me. As the man gathers some paperwork, I drum my fingers against the glass surface of his desk.

Clipboards are laid out in front of Mikey and I. My eyes graze over the paper before me, picking up words like photographer, travel, and a number that’s more than I could ever hope to make even at the highest level of my current job.

“So,” the man claps his hands onto jean-covered thighs, “I suppose I should introduce myself, I am Brian. I work under Matt. He wanted to be here, but there’s a whole family thing – anyway. Why don’t you two read those over real quick? I'll be happy to answer any questions.”

“I’m sorry, what is this?”

Brian smiles cheerily at me, “Signing day.”

As I got to say more, Mikey nudges me, “Just read it.”

What sits in front of me is a contract. It details what my responsibilities will be, what the label’s responsibilities will be, and at the end, it gives a salary. I’m meant to travel with the band, take photographs that will be posted to social media sights and sold to various magazines. I’m meant to go to at least half of all tour dates. My travel expenses will be covered for all domestic shows. I have to read over the paper a few times before it really clicks in my brain.

On my third read-through, the buzzing of my phone draws my attention. Giving Brian an apologetic smile, I go to switch it off.

“You should probably answer that,” Brian states. “It might be important.”

It’s only then that I realize the caller is Frank, “Hello?”

“Are you at the label?” I can hear the smile in his voice, almost seeing the ways his eyes must be sparkling right now.

“I thought you died,” I answer back. Sure, it’s a relief to hear his voice, to realize what’s going on, but he doesn’t just get a free pass. “I get a call from your label telling me to come in and radio silence from everyone.”

Frank lets out a nervous chuckle, “I know, probably not the best way to handle it, but I wanted it to be a surprise. I want you to be the band’s photographer, Elizabeth. I don’t want us to have to be apart anymore. I miss you too much to keep going like this. I understand if you don’t want to, or if you don’t want to leave your job, but – ”

“I’m going to sign that papers, Frank,” I let out my own laugh, the whole situation washing over me, happiness bubbling up in my stomach. “I’m going to quit my job and never have to deal with snotty actors or my co-worker hitting on me again. I believe in what you’re doing. I’m gonna do this.”

“Well, ya know, you’re still gonna have to deal with your co-workers hitting on you,” Frank laughs back.

Rolling my eyes, I lean my elbows against the desktop, grinning, “Yeah well, at least at this job it’ll be enjoyed.”

“You aren’t mad at me?”

“No, Frank, but if you ever do something like this again, I’ll kill you.”

There’s a few second pause, in which I can hear Frank trying to stifle a chuckle, “It’s presumptuous of you to think I wouldn’t want that.”

“You gonna add in the sputtered apology attempt too?”

That’s one of the things I love about Frank; he hardly ever forgets things. During normal conversations, he’ll slide in little comments that send me flying back through time to when our relationship was brand new when we were still learning each other. It’s little things like this that make me feel special, loved; lets me know that Frank is committed to this.

“I think we’ve moved past that, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I think so. I’m gonna sign these papers now, I’ll call you when I get home, okay?”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“Me too.”

Sliding my phone back into my pocket, I pick up the pen Brian handed me with the paperwork. For a few seconds, I just sit there, feeling all eyes in the room on me. Mikey was right, my whole life is going to change. For so long I was terrified of continuing to move forward. Staying in the past meant holding onto those memories I made with Gerard. Work was the one place I could still live in my old life. Since meeting Frank, I've grown increasingly unhappy at my current job. Staring down at this piece of paper, I finally understand why. It's time. I no longer want to cling to a life I can't have anymore. Pressing pen to paper I sign my name on the dotted line, accepting that my life will never be the same again. Thing is, I don't think I want it to.


	45. ~45~

In the weeks leading up to Frank coming home from tour, I received a call about a charity auction. Gerard, always big into those things, insisting that helping out the community is a responsibility anyone well off has. I followed him to countless events. They were all the same; stuffy people in stuffy clothing bidding on things that should have never been given a price. I kept a happy face and shook the hands.

Despite hating the whole idea of auctioning off art, the money does go to a good cause. I loot through the canvases stacked against the walls in the spare bedroom, going as far as prying open the closet doors to get to older works. If I’m doing this, I want to be sure I’m bringing in paintings that Gerard would have been proud of, ones he would’ve wanted to hang on someone’s wall, passed on from generation to generation.

I come up with four different paintings. Two are older, ones of landscapes Gerard found soothing to work on after he got clean. The other two are newer with louder colors and more bold themes. I stare down at the choices I’ve made. The fourth painting, one of the more outlandish ones was the last painting he completed before the accident. I consider giving the unfinished superhero, knowing that of all the paintings in the apartment, that one would go for the most, but I just can’t part with it. The half-painted man and his cherry red hair just mean too much to me. I wouldn’t want it to go to someone who wouldn’t appreciate it properly. That’s my memory. I get to keep it safe and protected in Gerard’s favorite place.

~

It’s late when I feel pressure on the other side of the bed. For a few seconds, my sleep-clouded brain goes to worst-case scenarios, fingers searching for the knife Gerard kept hidden under the mattress. Sure, the neighborhood is safe, but there’s always that one time. His gentle whisper, the feather-light touch of calloused fingertips over my bare skin brings me back to reality. My arms curl around his middle, breathing in the coffee, cigarette, patchouli smell that is uniquely Frank.

“Can I come to bed?”

Frank’s never staid over at my apartment, not properly anyway. He usually takes the couch as I felt having anyone else in the bed Gerard and I shared to be too intimate. Tonight, I just want him here. I don’t want to go through the process of fully pulling myself out of sleep to wander across the hall.

I nuzzle my head further into his stomach, kissing the skin that gets exposed by my movements, “Please.”

As Frank goes to move back the blankets, I roll back onto my side of the bed. Once he’s settled, I curl into his side, enjoying the feeling of skin against skin. We fall asleep curled around each other, legs intertwined, foreheads resting gently together.

~

“Do you own a suit?” I hand over half a bagel and a cup of coffee to a still exhausted-looking Frank.

As he chews, he nods, swallowing hard, “I actually own two suits. What’re we talking, black tie or jeans and a suit jacket?”

“Black tie,” I fish the gala invitations off the coffee table, flashing them for Frank to see. “There’s a charity auction in about a week. I’m bringing some of Gerard’s work. Usually, I woul – ”

“What color tie should I get?”

The rest of my long-winded sales pitch gets caught in my throat at Frank’s question. I was expecting more reluctance. Stuffy suits and art auctions just don’t seem like something Frank would jump to go to. “I’m sorry.”

“Your dress or whatever you’re wearing, what color is it? I’ll try to get a matching tie. That’s what people do right?”

“I guess,” I curl against the couch cushion, bringing my knees to my chest. “There’s a dinner and dance and then the auction. It’ll mostly be artsy people who aren’t too bad, but the bidders are usually pretty boring. We just have to stay till they put up Gerard’s art.”

Frank shrugs, “We can stay as long as you’d like.”

“Can I ask a question?”

“You already have,” Frank gives me a smirk, “but I suppose another couldn’t hurt.”

Gently I run my shoulder against his, rolling my eyes. He’s such a brat, “Why did you agree without letting me explain?”

“I’ve been gone for a long time. You just dealt with that. You never complained. The least I can do is go to your thing with you. Relationships are give and take. I took and now it’s my time to give.”

“This isn’t a tit for tat thing.”

This gets a chuckle, Frank slinging his arm around my shoulders, “I love you, but believe me, it’d take a lot more than a six-month tour to make up for all the times you’ve been on the taking end.”

“I resent that.”

I get a playful wink, Frank kissing the top of my head, “I know. Lucky for you I’m not into keeping score. Like you said, we help each other out. What’s the plan for today?”

“Well, I am meeting Kristin at three to look for dresses so you can get a tie.”

“Can I make a suggestion?”

I roll my head to look up at Frank who smiles down at me, “Get gold, it makes your eyes sparkle.”

“You’re just still thinking of me in that one top.”

Frank gives me a wink, his tongue poking out over his bottom lip as he smirks. He doesn’t even try to hide the blush rising to the tips of his ears, “I am but a man, forgive me.”

Craning my neck, I pucker my lips, waiting for Frank to lay his over mine. Once he does I lay my head back against his shoulder, “Forgiven.”

~

It takes Kristin and me almost four hours to find a dress. This is mostly because we spend more time standing in the aisle catching up and joking back and forth and less because I have no idea what I’m looking for. Going with Gerard meant I could wear whatever. Artists are eclectic and because of that allowed to break the standard dress code that comes along with these kinds of events. Being attached to Gerard meant I could also slip past the rules. Presentable was good enough. Now, I feel like that privilege has been stripped away. Not only that, but I’m representing Gerard. I want to look good.

“Honestly, Liz, anything you wear will look amazing,” Kristin says as I come out of the dressing room, doing a little twirl for her. “Have you seen yourself?”

Rolling my eyes, I fall into the chair next to her; accepting the champagne flute the store assistant offers me, “Don’t even.”

“Do you even want to go to this thing?”

Arching an eyebrow, I give Kristin a pointed look, “Do you?”

“Free food and more booze than I could ever consume? It’s a night with Mikey without the kid. Yeah, I wanna go.”

I can’t help but laugh, finishing off the last of my champagne before standing up, “Don’t get me wrong, I love Frank and him agreeing to go is awesome. I just wish I was going with Gerard.”

Kristin picks up on my frown, on the heavy sigh that escapes through barely parted lips. Reaching forward, she takes my hand between hers, “I know it’s not the same. He’ll be there though. You know that. Even if you can’t see him, Gerard is always there. Now, go try on more dresses before I get too drunk.”

I settle on a coppery, spaghetti strap dress. The skirt flows out around my legs, reflecting blues and greens under the lighting of the shop. Kristin looks around for jewelry as I stare at myself in the mirror. Sighing, I tilt my head towards the ceiling, picturing Gerard as I let my eyes slip shut. “I hope you would’ve liked this one.”


	46. ~46~

I’ve never been to a charity art auction but it’s pretty much what I expected. Most people there hover in little groups, plastering on fake smiles whenever anyone says hello or offers their comments on the pieces up for auction. Most of its stuff I’d never dream of hanging in my house; stuffy pictures of ladies in fancy dresses and obscure line drawings that look like someone handed their two-year-old a paintbrush.

Elizabeth, Mikey, Kristin, and I make our rounds, stopping in front of various pieces. Mostly we spend our time laughing at the others in attendance or gawking at the starting bids for particularly ridiculous-looking art. Gerard’s pieces are towards the end of the lineup, hung from wires dangling from the high ceiling. The prices on them make my jaw drop.

“Just how well known was Gerard?” I question, staring at a lake scene he did in oil paints. There’s a little cottage with warm yellow windows, and blurred ducks floating around on a deep blue surface. The way the paint dried gives everything a 3D look to it.

Elizabeth gives me a shrug, “Well enough.”

“She’s being modest,” Mikey jumps in with an eye roll. “One of his paintings sold for almost fifty-thousand.”

Teeth sink into a delicate bottom lip, eyes going glassy as a bottom jaw begins to quiver, “Don’t reduce him to numbers.”

Before Mikey is able to defend himself, a man in a tweed suit comes up behind us, placing his hand on Elizabeth’s lower back to get her attention. I watch the way she jerks away from the contact, painting on a polite smile as she turns to face the guy. He goes on and on about how excited he is that Gerard’s paintings are being offered. The words seem to fall on deaf ears as Elizabeth continues to skirt away from his tires to touch her arm or shoulder.

She doesn’t want to be here. As we were getting ready she went on this long tangent about how art shouldn’t be priced and how she wishes she’d just turned down the offer. I’m not entirely sure if she’s upset about the auction or if she’s having a hard time parting with pieces of Gerard. His art is really the only physical part of him she’s got left. I can’t imagine it’s easy to see those things go to people like this. The second I walked in, saw them hungrily eyeing the images on the walls, I knew the sales weren’t because they love the art. They’re betting on these things for bragging rights, to say they have the money to spend.

“Hey,” I slide my arms around Elizabeth’s waist, resting my chin on her shoulder, “I need a cigarette. Wanna join me?”

She lets out a small chuckle, smiling, “Already tired of mister and missus I’m too rich for my own good?”

“Something like that,” I grin back, leading the both of us towards the glass front doors of the building.

The rest of the night goes well. Elizabeth seems to get over her disdain for the event and even laughs and smiles through dinner and the dance that follows. She jokes around with Mikey, her and Kristin dancing around together. For a while, I think all of us forget why we’re really here. This lighthearted mood carries over even when we’re corralled into the bidding room.

Elizabeth leaves Mikey, Kristin, and I to mingle with some of the other artists who seem thrilled she’s offered some of Gerard’s pieces. Out of everyone here, the painters and their families seem the most genuine. While those here to bid keep to their little groups, staring down their noses at the others, the artists have actually been quite friendly.

I’m hyper-aware of the eyes that follow Elizabeth. She’s stunning tonight, freshly dyed hair standing out in vibrant contrast to her golden ball gown and glittering green eye shadow. She’s breathtakingly beautiful and I feel my heart swell with pride every time she smiles over at me.

“S’cuse me for just one second,” I cut into the conversation I’m having with Mikey and Kristin.

Striding across the room, I clap the same man from earlier on the shoulder, forcing him to turn and look at me. Typically, I wouldn’t get involved, but I’m tired of having to see the smile fall from Elizabeth’s face. This is an event to showcase the work her husband has done, not a place for her to have to avoid getting hit on.

“Hey man, I couldn’t help but notice that your hand was on my girlfriend. Now, usually, I’d let it slide, but I’ve seen you do that a couple times tonight. I’ve watched her politely duck or pull away every time. You see, I’m not sure about you, but where I grew up if a lady does that it means you stop trying to touch her. So kindly, keep your fucking hands off my girlfriend or we may have to have some words in the parking lot later. Understand?”

He stumbles away, lips pulled into a tight frown, grumbling under his breath.

Turning to Elizabeth, I offer her my hand, “What do you say we go home?”

“You didn’t have to save me, ya know?”

Stopping just outside the front doors, I collect her face in my hands, thumb rubbing over the smooth skin of her cheek, “I know. I wanted to though. I want you to know I’m always going to be there when you need me, no matter what.”


	47. ~47~

Over forty thousand copies sold with almost ten thousand streams in the first month. I continue to read through the numbers breakdown Matt sent in our band group chat. It doesn’t seem real. Our first album only sold about five thousand copies total. I never thought we’d see numbers like this. There’s a slew of other information, each encapsulated in a little blue bubble but I can’t seem to pull my eyes away from the sales numbers.

Elizabeth wanders up from the bedroom, hair wrapped in a fading black towel, my shirt hanging off her thin frame. She basically lives over here now, her clothes taking up half my closet, spilling out of the dresser draws. We’ve talked about maybe getting an apartment together or me moving across the hall to her place. For now, that’s all it is, talk. We fantasize about what the apartment would look like, our styles both very different, but always get caught up on the logistics. Elizabeth has too many memories attached to the furniture sitting in her apartment. I don’t ever want to make her feel like she needs to get rid of something to make room for what I’ve already got. Besides, there’s another tour lingering on the horizon, and moving on top of that seems like an unachievable task.

“Mikey said Matt sent over the numbers,” she flops down next to me, head resting in my lap, fingertips beginning to dust over a tattoo I recently got inked on my wrist.

I got it on a whim, wandering around downtown one afternoon the flashing neon lights of the tattoo parlor just seemed to call my name. While it’s nothing big or extravagant it means the world to me, just like the person it represents. A string of Roman Numerals; the date my whole world changed, the day I chose to stand out in the cold and have a cigarette with a girl who wore a thin frown, sad eyes staring out at me through a haze of loss. Elizabeth has taken to tracing over it with the tip of her pinkie finger, smiling silently to herself. I know she knows what it represents. I just don’t think either of us feels anything needs to be said.

“They’re more than I ever thought possible,” I hand the phone over to Elizabeth.

She studies the screen, scrolling down, “You’ve got an interview tomorrow. Matt sent over a mock-up of tour dates too. You could be leaving as soon as October.”

“That’s still four months away,” I answer back absentmindedly, now reading through the rest of Matt’s messages.

He talks about a string of interviews, two shoots for music videos, a photoshoot with Elizabeth, and what looks to be about a year of touring. Everything I’ve ever dreamed of it laid out here on my phone screen. I can’t help but smile, excitement brewing inside. This is what making it feels like, this is what living my dream is. All the better is that I know Elizabeth will at least be traveling with us for the American and Canadian parts of tour.

“It’ll be here sooner than you think,” Elizabeth beams up at me. I can see the excitement behind her eyes, the color glowing in the mid-afternoon sunlight peeking in through the cracks in the living room curtains. “Gonna have to find someone else to feed the fish.”

Chuckling, I lean forward to press a kiss to her lips; “I’d rather find someone else to feed them than leave you behind.”

“You might still have to at some point,” Elizabeth’s smile falters, eyes going cloudy. I barely catch the next words that spill from her lips. “I won’t be able to travel once the baby comes.”

My heart stops; breath catching in my throat, body getting that heavy feeling of disbelief. I have to swallow a few times before I’m able to respond, “What?”

“Frank,” Elizabeth twists around on the couch, towel falling from her head, wet hair clinging to the side of her face and neck as she takes my hands in hers, “I’m pregnant.”

I stutter out a few words of confusion, the disbelief melting away into another wave of glee. A baby? The only conversations I’ve ever had with Elizabeth about children are her telling me Gerard and her never wanted them. I’ve always seen the kind of far away regret in her eyes, watched the smile fall from her face. I think it was Gerard who didn’t want a kid; Elizabeth went along with that.

“Is it mine?”

I realize how stupid the question is as soon as it’s left my mouth. Elizabeth giggles, “No, it’s Jeff’s from upstairs. Of course, it’s yours.”

“And you want it?”

Elizabeth gives me a little nod, “Do you?”

“I’m gonna be a dad,” I laugh, pulling her into my chest, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Yeah, let’s do this. Let’s be parents.”

“I don’t want you to stop touring because of this,” Elizabeth blurts out once I’ve let her go.

That’s the furthest thing from my mind. Images of a little dark-haired kid tottering through the apartment fill my vision, pictures of Elizabeth sitting on the couch with a huge baby-belly beaming at me, ideas for names and how we’ll set up a nursery, teaching our kid who to play instruments, and the three of us struggling through grade school math homework. We’ll have to move. There isn’t enough room for a baby in my apartment. Parents. The thought makes me laugh, my cheeks hurting from all the smiling.

“I won’t. That’s my job. I gotta provide for the kid,” I answer back, wrapping my arm around Elizabeth’s shoulders.

She leans her head against me; “We’ll be good parents, right?”

“Maybe not the most conventional of parents, but we’ll do a kick-ass job. Does anyone else know?”

“No. I just found out for sure this morning, but I've had an idea for a few months. I don’t want to tell Mikey yet, he’ll want me to sit out the tour.”

“You still want to come?”

I get a kiss on the cheek, “I wouldn’t miss it.”


	48. ~48~

The next four months fly by in a haze of music videos, photoshoots, doctor's appointments, and Frank lugging boxes of his things over to my apartment. He’s going to be ending his lease before the tour starts. After I told him about the baby he suggested we actually move in together. My entertainment center is replaced by Frank’s fish tank, dishes mixing together, two lives coming together almost seamlessly. He’s selling most of his furniture, insisting I shouldn’t have to get rid of anything I don’t want to. The only thing we replace outright is the bed. My old set goes into a storage shed we rented out. There was a silent agreement that it was the one thing we needed to be just ours, new, never used, no old relationships still lingering around it.

Later on in the year, Gerard’s art room will be turned into a nursery. All the paint supplies and canvases will be moved to Mikey’s house. The unfinished superhero will be hung in the baby’s room.

I was terrified to tell Frank I was pregnant. A baby just didn’t seem to fit into the life we’re building together. He seems elated, talking about names and all sorts of things he wants to teach the kid once it’s older. He falls asleep with his hand on my stomach, pressing kisses to the skin there. I’ve only seen him this excited about music. His behavior makes me feel more comfortable with the whole thing. I never imaged I’d actually have a child. Now that it’s happening, I find myself looking forward to it. Frank’s gonna be an amazing dad.

As the day Frank will be leaving to start tour grows closer, I help him pack everything he’ll need. The shows will start in London. The band will travel across Europe for about two months. As the label stipulated I’d only get paid for the domestic shows, I’m staying home. I’ll join them for the American leg, which will last another two or so months. After that, the band will take a break. This wasn’t the original plan, but by then I’ll be pretty close to my due date. Frank doesn’t want to miss that. They’ll head back out on the road without me in the summer.

We have breakfast together the morning he’s supposed to leave, lounging around on the sofa and flipping through morning cartoons. He has to leave for the airport around noon.

At around eleven Frank disappears into the bedroom, probably packing up a few last-minute things or checking that he’s got all his paperwork. International travel seems to make Frank anxious. I give him his space, continuing to read through a maternity book Kristin sent over. While I wasn’t going to share the baby news with anyone until later on in the pregnancy, Frank let it slip one morning at breakfast with Mikey and his wife.

When Frank wanders back into the living room I stand. He opens his arms letting me curl against his chest, “You be safe, okay?”

“Always,” Frank pets my head, smiling down at me as his lips meet my forehead. “You too. I’ll be home before you know it.”

“I’ll call every day.”

Frank smiles and there’s a glint in his eyes I’ve not seen in a while, “I love you.” He dips down to press his lips to my stomach, whispering little goodbyes to it.

“I love you too.”

As the door shuts, a flash of pink catches my attention. A little pink sticky note is pressed to the cold metal. Attached to the offensively colored note is a one-way plane ticket to London, England. Frank’s slanting, almost cursive handwriting stares up at me, Once I said someday, maybe that someday is today.

I can’t help the laughter that spills from me; that sneaky devil. Dashing into the bedroom, I throw open the closet door, ready to throw whatever clothes I can into a bag and dash out to meet him before he thinks I’m not coming. Sitting on the floor is an already packed duffel bag. Now I understand what he was doing back here. My passport and other paperwork sit neatly on top.

~

He’s leaning against the half-wall dividing the apartments from the parking lot. The wind picks up pieces of his hair, tossing them around. A cigarette hangs lazily from his lips. As he sees me, his eyes crease; the oil-spill orbs a dazzling display of hunter greens, ocean blues, and hazy browns.

“You know those things’ll kill you, right?” I joke.

Frank hums, stubbing it out, “Actually been thinking about quitting.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Ready to go?”

I turn back, staring at the bricks of the apartment building. This isn’t goodbye, not really. We’ll be back. This place seems to have that effect, “Lead the way, 211.”

As his hand slips into mine, I let out a content sigh. With Frank by my side, reminding me how to smile and enjoy the little things, life doesn’t seem all that daunting.

There are lots of ways to die. You could trip down the stairs. You could choke on a piece of food. You could be in the wrong place at the wrong time. You could get cancer. You could be certain you looked both ways before you stepped out into the road and a car can come and hit you anyway. Death is lurking around every corner, hidden in the shadows just waiting for you to do something stupid, something accidental, something you couldn’t even prevent. It wants you to slip up. It’s happy when that air goes down just a little bit wrong and you burst into a fit of coughing.

There are also lots of ways to live. Sticky notes on doors and bottles of alcohol on the doorstep. Smoky bars and gritty punk music. Laughing and dancing. Waking up to the smell of coffee. Folding into a lover’s arms. Remembering how much you love something. Secret glances and unexpected crushes. The feeling of home. A hug. That soaring feeling of a new love full of unexpected adventures. To live washes away the fear. It makes you feel powerful, gives you new energy. It lays you open, ready for whatever can be thrown your way. I’ve found the joy in living again and I’m never letting that feeling go. I’ve found my light, that spark of hope that leaves death quaking in its boots.

**Author's Note:**

> xoxo FrankiesLilKilljoy  
> ~Keep Running~


End file.
